


The Things That Haunt Us

by BRNZ



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Armchair Therapy, BAMF John Watson, Background Case, Blood and Violence, Boys In Love, Child Death, Childhood Trauma, Clothing Porn, Crime Fighting, Dead People, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Bliss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Gay Sex, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy Angst, Hurt John Watson, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, PTSD John, Past Violence, Pining John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Therapy, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRNZ/pseuds/BRNZ
Summary: What happens when a post war vet with PTSD takes up with a madman detective and they spend time investigating and solving some truly horrific crimes?  How does the doctor who can kill with steady hand process all that additional trauma?  How do we recognise that our past still haunts us, in ways we don't realise?When you are caught in a vicious cycle of needing the thrill of the chase, and having to deal with the fallout...what happens when you might need to choose between the two for your own sanity?The story of how two damaged men managed to find their way back to each other and begin to make a future together.NOTE:  Mind the TAGS - there are some short but detailed and graphic enough descriptions of violence to children, torture, dead bodies etc in the first chapter.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 105
Kudos: 89





	1. Nightmares and Magic Bananas

**Author's Note:**

> ****************************************************************************  
> MIND THE TAGS - there are some short but detailed and graphic enough descriptions of violence to children, torture, dead bodies etc. Particularly in the first chapter but some references later.
> 
> There are specifics about John's nightmares that some people may find triggering, I went hard with the TAGS - so please be mindful and make good choices.
> 
> This started out as a one shot when my brain went - what happens when they do come across the truly horrific crimes - how do either of them deal with that load over time?
> 
> Involves lots of therapy and two men learning to love each other.
> 
> Also - many thanks to @Hatknitter - my editor and rock of inspiration!
> 
> ****************************************************************************************

The first time it happened was after they’d finally cracked a sex trafficking ring. The hollow-eyed, drugged-out victims lying on filthy mattresses amid the smell of vomit, unwashed bodies, and hopeless despair haunted John for days. 

He’d tried talking to Ella about it, but the case was confidential so he couldn’t reveal any relevant details. Nor could he talk about how one tall, underweight, dark-haired boy had grasped his wrist as he was checking his vitals, rasping in a heavy eastern European accent, “Please… kill me… please.”

Screaming himself awake a couple of weeks later, drenched in sweat, pulse pounding so loud it drowned out anything else, gasping and lightheaded, he struggled to fight his way out of the bedclothes tangling his legs. Too late, he found himself emptying his stomach over the duvet, tears and snot adding to his general misery.

Shaking and sobbing as the grim parade of images from his dream flashed across his eyelids… Sherlock lying with the victims, dying, begging for death… begging John to kill him… 

“Oh, god….” He staggered on trembling legs into the tiny half-bath ensuite, knowing he wasn’t done yet. Sticking two fingers down his throat to pre-empt the inevitable, he lay against the cool tiled wall and waited out the adrenaline comedown.

Eventually, feeling hollow and wrung out, he reluctantly headed back to his bedroom to deal with the mess, and stopped in surprise. The bed had been stripped and completely remade with clean sheets. A tall glass of water sat next to a bottle of orange juice and a banana. A bucket was tucked in beside the bedside cabinet.

The message was clear, “Hydrate and balance your blood sugar levels.” Leaving aside the puzzle of where the hell Sherlock had managed to acquire a banana and orange juice from, given John hadn’t bought either lately…. He self-medicated and climbed into his freshly made bed and prayed for a dreamless sleep.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in polite enquiry the next morning, he nodded with a, “Thanks,” and nothing further was said.

************************************************   
  
The bucket got used several times over the next few months, which John was both ashamed about and grateful for. Each time he ended up in the bathroom, cleaning up after himself, resting against the tiled wall, letting the chill seep into his overheated skin, the pale white walls calming in the dark. He felt safe there, a respite from the demons inside his brain, for which he was grateful.   
  
And when he came back, Sherlock had visited, making the bed if necessary, leaving fluids and magical bananas behind.

They never spoke of it.

*******************************************************

  
As John washed the grime of the past 48 hours off him, he stood under the hot water, shaking as he restrained himself from punching the wall or screaming at the horror of what they had witnessed. Brutal beyond belief, the dismembered corpses of children, torture and abuse of the worst kind clearly present, it had been a shock to even his battle-hardened composure.

The NSY team had worked in grim silence. Even Sherlock curtailed his usual mockery of Anderson and his team out of respect for the young lives lost to such depravity. That the perpetrator had chosen to end his own life rather than be captured was a meagre victory. They all knew there were likely other victims that would never be found. Other families who would never be given closure.

The worst thing was that they almost missed the evidence while looking into another case. It was Sherlock who had sifted out the different puzzle pieces, pointing them in another direction. By the time they found the predator’s lair it was days too late. It had been too late before they even started looking, but once they realised what the evidence was pointing to, no one had wanted to stop. 

Wired on caffeine, energy drinks and protein bars, snatching naps slumped in uncomfortable office chairs, watching Sherlock wear himself to a shadow as the evidence trickled in until they got the final piece that allowed him to link it all together, John was worn out.

He knew tonight was going to be bad. He pushed half his dinner away uneaten, resisting the urge to hit the whisky hard and hope it was enough to hold back the nightmares.

As he busied himself with cleaning up after dinner, feeling the fatigue that soaked into his bones, desperate for sleep yet dreading the horrors it would bring, Sherlock’s voice startled him.

“John… do you want to talk about… today?” There was an unexpected note of compassion in the detective’s voice making John hunch his shoulders, leaning on the sink bench. 

Shaking his head, he said unsteadily, “I… no… shit. Sorry.” 

He flinched (and hated himself for it) as a warm hand clasped his shoulder for a long moment. Sighing, he relaxed into the touch, letting the human connection ground him until Sherlock gave a squeeze and let go.

“Will you be alright?” Unspoken was the question: Will you make it through the night?

Bracing himself, John said with infinite bitterness, “I was a soldier in Afghanistan where I saw people blown to bits with IED and worse. What I saw today?” He turned to look at Sherlock, soulsick and empty, “I will never be alright again.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, acknowledging the horrors they had both experienced, the scars they left behind and what it felt like to carry them. That and so much more.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock spoke softly, “I’ll listen, with no judgement, if you ever need to talk about the things no one else should hear, John. I will listen.” With that complicated pursing of lips that meant he was a little closer to real emotion than he preferred, Sherlock nodded once and disappeared down the hall to his bedroom.

***

_ … oranges and lemons, say the bells of st clemons … singsong children’s voices, as pale faces float across his vision … a ring a ring o’roses … _

_ Oh god, the screaming … he cut them up while they were alive, watching as they bled out …. blood pooling on the filthy concrete floor, trickling down the drain… _

_ … chop, chop, chop off their heads … _

_ … hands grasping as voices whisper … save us … save us … why didn’t you help us? Help us? HELP US!!! _

_ Choking at the stench of bagged up remains, bags bloated as flies buzzed around… oh god… he knows that smell, every doctor knows that smell… _

_ … every soldier knows that smell too… _

_ … too small … the bags are too small … oh god … not children … _

_ … save us … save us … why didn’t you help us? Help us?... _

_ Panting … lightheaded with the stench and the horror … I’m sorry … oh, god … no … PLEASE NO!!! _ _   
_ _   
_ **_STOP!! MAKE IT STOP!!!_ **

_ … we … all … fall … down … _

Panting, sweat-drenched, throat dry from screaming himself awake, John crawled forward, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Sinking down on his elbows and knees, bed sheets rucked up underneath him, fists clenched in the fabric as he screamed into the mattress.

Uncaring how much noise he was making, hearing only the tormenting singsong voices and screams of children in his head. It was  **_too much_ ** for any sane person to handle, and John would shake his head at any consideration that he was anywhere near stable, even on a good day.

All of the anger and frustration and pain he carried, both his own and that of the victims he did his best to help, so much of it he could never share with anyone. So he shouldered that load, not always willingly, but because it was who he was. He had no outlet to offload it, and so here he was, a broken, bitter man haunted by horrors beyond belief.

Aware that Sherlock (and probably half the street) would be awake, he shakily made his way to his bathroom refuge, splashed cold water over his face. Wrinkling his nose at the rank fear-sweat smell, he ripped his t-shirt off, soaked it in cold water and roughly scrubbed his chest, neck, and arms. 

Repeating until his skin was pink and his hands stopped the worst of their shaking, he stared at his face in the mirror. Sunken-eyed, dark bruises around his eyes, he realised he had lost weight. There were hollows in his cheeks that he hadn’t seen since Afghanistan. He looked… old and sick.

Flicking off the light, blinking in the darkness of the stairwell, he walked into his bedroom and stopped at the familiar shape of Sherlock slouched on the end of his bed.

Dazed and wrung out from his nightmare, he wasn’t quite able to process this change in their routine until Sherlock said quietly,

“You’ve lost weight John, too much.”

Suddenly aware he was standing there in only his briefs, John reached for a tshirt off the pile of clothing sitting on his dresser (clean but not yet put away), pulling it on like armor before moving to sit next to Sherlock on the bed.

He swigged down the orange juice. It was acidic, but it scoured the gummy tang of the nightmare from his mouth. His swallows were loud in the silence - funny how you don’t notice that when you are by yourself, but painfully aware when you have an audience.

“Sorry if I woke you,” he said hoarsely as he put the bottle aside.

Sherlock shifted next to him, “I wasn’t asleep, but no need to apologise, John….” His hand moved like he was going to reach out, but instead curled into the duvet cover, “What … what can I do?”

“Do?” John shook his head. “Can you catch every sick bastard in the world before they….” Hanging his head as the unsaid words echoed in the silence anyway, “Not even the Great Sherlock Holmes is that good.”  _ Trying not to sound bitter, and failing, hearing his words cut as the man next to him breathed out shakily. _

“Oh god, sorry Sherlock, that … that wasn’t how I meant it.” He turned to look at his best friend, startled to see the shining track of tears on the other man’s face. The thin net curtains let in the predawn lights of the city, casting an eerie golden glow across both of them.

“Jesus,” John breathed “I’ve never seen you cry before. Not for real.”

“You’re hurting, John…. This … what we do…  **I’m** hurting you. Not sleeping or eating properly, this is worse than when you moved in…. God, how you sounded… it was painful… knowing that was my fault…. I failed, John. I failed them and I failed you….”

Hearing the raw emotion from the man who so rarely expressed anything other than controlled disdain was distressing. Sherlock was both right and wrong, and John didn’t know how to fix them both having an existential crisis at 3 am.

Turning, bringing one knee up on the bed to face Sherlock, he said roughly, “No, Sherlock, you didn’t fail. Because you didn’t do this! That sick sick bastard, he’s the one who hurt those kids. Without you, we would never have found him or them. How could you possibly think you failed?”

“Because I saw what it was doing to you and I didn’t… stop. I didn’t help you.” Tears flowed faster until he dashed them away irritably, “I’m sorry, John, sorry I’ve been so selfish.” Sherlock’s voice shook as he swallowed and looked away.

It was the tickle down his throat that alerted him to the fact that he was crying too, but John ignored it. Looking up at his friend imploringly, he said, “I chose this…. You know I need it, just as much as you do … we’re a team. You need me.”

He sniffed and scrubbed at his face with his t-shirt, “I’m the only one who speaks fluent idiot, who can translate for you.”

That won him a hint of a smile, but something was clearly bothering Sherlock, so John sat, looking at the man he had shared his life with for these past years. With whom he had shared almost everything (the lack only for want of invitation or opportunity). 

“Let me guess. You want to tell me something, probably something personal, but you think it might upset me, and you aren’t sure quite what to say, but you think it's important enough that I need to hear it now?”

Sherlock blinked and John grinned, “I speak pretty fluent Sherlock too, now and then.”

Again, with that half grin - and this one reached his eyes - and something in John relaxed a tiny bit. Sherlock reached behind him and brought four magic bananas into view. One hand dipped into his dressing gown pocket for a couple of muesli bars. Handing one of each to John, he said firmly but gently, “Eat. You need it.”

Cheering up at the sight of chocolate when he unwrapped the bar, he slanted a glance at Sherlock, “I will if you will.”

Screwing his face up, but nodding, “Can I have the last of the orange juice to wash it down?”

John passed him the bottle, then watched in horrified fascination as Sherlock placed the unwrapped bar on his pyjama-clad thigh, carefully peeled the banana, broke off pieces, and delicately squashed them on top of the crunchy oat topping. Methodically, he slowly ate his way through the oozing mess, rinsing the last of it down with the last of the juice and a shudder.

Realising he had his mouth open in shock, a half-chewed mouthful probably clearly visible, John choked it down, washing it down with water. Sherlock finished his banana, tidily ate the other one the usual way, then passed the last one to John, who quickly peeled and ate it. He did have to admit he felt better for putting some fuel into his body.

John realised that Sherlock needed comfort and human contact as well. Both of them had been affected, not just by the atrocity they had seen today, but the ongoing onslaught of horrors their work exposed them to. War was one thing, but the casual cruelty people dished out every day was somehow worse, infinite in its variety yet constant in its awfulness. 

He made a mental note to talk to Mycroft about getting Ella’s security rating increased so he  **could** begin to talk to her about more specifics of what was bothering him. After he had her consent, obviously. 

Casually, he said, “I hate crumbs in the bed, so brush yourself down before you get in.” Putting action to words, he stood and swept crumbs off the duvet, chucked the banana skins in the bathroom bin (he hated the smell). Walking back in, he found Sherlock almost dithering with confusion, but doing his best to not look it.

John straightened the rumpled bedding, flicked the top back and slid between the cool sheets. Taking pity on Sherlock, he said softly, “I need to sleep, but I don’t want to be alone tonight, and I suspect you are the same. Get in, Sherlock.”

He felt the gaze of those silver-blue eyes on him, measuring, judging? Whatever it was, they appeared to find it, and he shrugged off his silk dressing gown, letting it slide to the floor in a rustle of expensive fabric. The bed dipped under his shifting weight, and John breathed in that familiar combination of sandalwood, patchouli, and other exotic spices that made up Sherlock’s custom-made cologne.  _ It smelled like home … where he was safe. For whatever definition of ‘safe’ existed around Sherlock. _

Closing his eyes, wriggling around until he felt vaguely comfortable, half facing Sherlock who was lying resolutely on his back looking corpse-pale in the dim light.  _ That bought back a memory he didn’t want to revisit, and he shivered. _

That dark chocolate and whisky baritone voice said softly, “Did you ever wonder why you chose to become an army doctor, John?”

“At the time, it was the quickest way to escape… everything. I needed the structure and the discipline. It gave me options, and yeah, I guess a purpose. Ella’s a bit too fond of that word.”

Sherlock crinkled his eyes in amusement, but he continued in that serious tone, “Ella has completely missed the point. Your purpose is to protect, John. That’s what you do. It's what you’ve always done, protecting your family from your father, Harry from herself.” He paused, and gave John a moment to process that.

_ Crawling into his sister’s bed, holding her close, muffling her cries… anything to make sure that their father’s drunk temper tantrum passed them by… holding his hands over Harry’s ears so she didn’t hear their mother’s cries for help… teaching himself basic anatomy, learning how to disable someone quickly, having a cricket bat handy… facing his father down one night only to have his mother beg him to stop, “You’ll only make it worse, Johnny.”  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ That bitter taste of hopeless despair as he walked away for the last time… uniform still chafing in its newness… knowing he might never come back… realising he didn’t want to… because then he really might kill him.

“Becoming a doctor was your conscious choice, an obvious way to help people. But being a soldier… that was your subconscious. You needed an outlet for all that rage and pain you so very carefully hide from yourself, and the war gave you that. What we do helps, but it also adds to the trauma load you still carry, and your brain is struggling to reconcile the difference between the healer and the killer. You can’t talk about it with Ella, so instead you’re having nightmares.”

John digested that for several minutes. It hit uncomfortably close to some of the things Ella had mentioned, some truths he wasn’t quite ready to have to face up to. Looked like his chickens were coming home to roost.

“Medically discharged. They won’t have me back, not on the front lines.”

“There are other options for you to safely hurt other people, with their consent.” When John snorted at that, Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard John heard it. “Interesting that you went  _ there _ first, but I’m not going to judge you. Take up muay thai, capoeira or krav maga. Those are the more aggressive fighting styles that you can adapt around your shoulder’s limitations.”

He shifted, easing down into the mattress with a sigh, “I could do with a refresher myself, so I’ll come along, if you like, but I won’t spar with you.”

Having seen Sherlock in action often enough to know he had an eclectic background in enough martial arts to be dangerous, John was curious to see him actually training. When did Sherlock ever have to practise at anything?

“Why not? Afraid I might hurt you?” John asked lightly.

Finally, Sherlock turned and looked at him, eyes darkly shadowed as he said with quiet emphasis, “Because I know you would pull your punches, because you would be afraid of the consequences.”

“Which are?” John had no idea what the answer was, and was a little shaken at how easily Sherlock had flayed his soul wide open, but he didn’t want to stop…. He needed to see this out to the end.

Again with the measuring gaze from those changeable eyes. John stared back, lips pursed a little as he waited for Sherlock to reply.

“You can’t safely fight someone you have an emotional connection with, not at that level. You and I, we have too much history for it to be safe for either of us. One day you would slip the leash you keep on your anger, and both of us would pay the price.” There was another layer in the way Sherlock said it that John wasn’t quite ready to unpack yet.

“And I would never forgive myself.”  _ How can I possibly forgive myself for the choices I’ve made, the lives that were lost because of it? For not saving… everyone? Not even Sherlock. _

“You’re walking the razor’s edge, John, and you are bleeding out one slow drop at a time. If you won’t do it for yourself, will you do it for me?”

_ Christ, he had shot a man in cold blood within days of them first meeting. Hadn’t he proven there was nothing he wouldn’t do for this crazy madman?  _

Yawning wide enough that his jaw cracked, John mumbled, “Talk about it in the morning. Need to talk to Mycroft too.”

“About Ella’s security rating?” Of course he would have figured that out.

Nuzzling into his pillow, John replied, “Mmmmm, and find out who his Dom is, just in case I need an alternative.”

He was rewarded by Sherlock twitching as he started to turn his head towards John and caught himself. John allowed himself to laugh into the pillow, before rolling over.

“It was just a guess, but thanks for the confirmation. Night, Sherlock. If you snore I  **will** suffocate you with that pillow.”

_ Allowing himself one slow, genuine smile, Sherlock listens as John’s breathing slows and deepens into sleep. Even after all this time, John still has the capacity to surprise him. _

John drifted vaguely awake a couple of hours later, a heavy warmth plastered down his back. Sherlock’s breath was warm on the back of his neck, one arm snug over his ribs, familiar fingers curled laxly against his chest. Sleepily, he brushed his lips over the fingertips, and drifted off again with a smile on his face.

When he awoke properly, Sherlock was gone. John buried his face in the pillow decorated with long dark hairs, breathing in deeply, inhaling the essence of Sherlock as deep into his soul as he could manage.


	2. Conversations, Confessions and Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various conversations are had, some confessions are made and Sherlock manages to surprise a few people and no one dies!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ********************************************************************  
> Soooooo this has got a lot LONGER than I originally anticipated - the lovely @Hatknitter who is the BEST BETA kept asking me questions and giving me ideas.
> 
> ****************************************************

Donna pointed with her chin, “What's all that, then?”

The seven of them turned their heads to look as bunches of other students all started heading to the advanced studio next door. One of the teachers waved them over, so with shrugs, they gathered their gear and joined the crowd.

As they trailed through the door the teacher said, “In for a treat today. Sev has had an old student drop by, and they are going spar.”

John followed the others into the studio. He’d been given the tour a few months ago when he signed up, but hadn’t been in since. It was half the size of the main gym, full of the buzz of excited students and tutors as they arranged themselves around the edges of the mats.

He’d opted for _ krav maga _ , preferring the more defensive style that allowed him to de-arm or de-escalate an opponent. Sherlock was right, it did offer him a physical outlet, even though he was a little frustrated to still be at a beginner level. Unlearning his army combat techniques was taking time.

Ella had agreed to the necessary security checks, and he was now able to discuss more specifics with her, which was helping with his anxiety and his nightmares. John suspected that Sherlock had talked to Lestrade about it, as the number of violent cases they were bought in on had greatly reduced. While he worried about the opportunities they might be missing to help, he also had to be honest with himself. He needed the break. His nightmares were less frequent, but no less disruptive.

Opting to stand, because his mildly abused thighs might betray him if he sat, John crossed his arms, leaning against the padded wall, watching the senior teachers ensure the safety of the crowd. Sev was the Russian-born owner of the gym, but he left management to his team so was rarely seen by most students. John had met him once, when Sherlock had organised his first visit. Stocky, a bit taller than John, with some impressive tattoos and a thick accent, he and Sherlock had spoken for a while in Russian while John got the sales pitch from the gym manager.

Apparently, a demonstration fight like this was unusual. Even the teachers seemed to be excited, the energy in the room was high. When Sev walked out of his office into the open space, he was greeted by whoops and hollers, which he waved down with a smile.

“Enough, you flatter me!” He spread his hands in a welcoming gesture, “It pleases me to introduce an old student and friend who has offered to come out and play just a little bit. Show some appreciation!”

More whoops and hollers, and a tall, dark-haired man walked out with long, loose strides. Wearing a tight grey t-shirt, sleek black leggings under black shorts, hair tied back into a couple of short pony tails, it took John a moment to recognise… Sherlock.

The two of them bantered in Russian as Sev made the introductions for the crowd.  _ John tunes it out as he stares in fascination at this entirely unexpected side of the man he thought he knew so well. Of course they both had their own lives, but what they did share entwined them so closely that… well… people made assumptions. _

Donna stood up next to him for a better vantage point, and nudged John in the ribs, “Hope he’s as good as he thinks he is. Shame if that pretty face got banged up.”

“What? Oh… yeah, shame.”

He didn’t see the look she gave him, instead asked, “What are the rules? I missed that bit.”

Daniel said, from the floor in front of them, “Best of three, two minute bouts, try not to break anything vital.”

Someone else shushed them before John could reply, and an expectant hush fell over the audience as the two men assumed their stance. Somewhere a bell rang and, without further warning, they were on each other. While  _ krav maga _ was designed as a defensive technique, it certainly left plenty of opportunities to be quite offensive, and the sound of fists and feet impacting, hisses and grunts as they grappled, disengaging, dodging kicks, hands flickering as they sparred.

It was intoxicating to see, yet as John watched Sherlock concede the first round, he had the impression both men were holding back. Testing each other out, perhaps? After a break for water and to get their breath back, they faced off again and John saw his hunch proved out.

This round was faster still. Each had warmed up and tested the limits of the other, and the exhilarated grin on Sherlock’s face was almost manic in its intensity. The men pushed each other to the edge with brutal intensity, the crowd wincing as a roundhouse kick got Sev in the kidneys. Sherlock had the reach over him, especially in the legs, and followed him down to the mat, finishing off the round when Sev tapped out from the chokehold Sherlock had him in.

One All, and the crowd was buzzing as the fighters took a longer break. Fighting the urge to make his way through the audience to Sherlock’s side, John listened with half an ear as his fellow students tried to dissect some of the moves they recognised, but his attention was on the man at the other end of the mat.

John jumped as Donna nudged him again, “You alright? Haven’t said much?”

“Yeah, just a bit surprised. I know him. He introduced me to this place.” Several faces turned in surprise in his direction.   
  
“You know him?” Several people commented at once, and Donna waved them down, “Why are you surprised, then?”

Damning her for her perceptiveness, he shrugged casually, “He’s not really into this whole showing off for an audience thing. Not usually, anyway.”

_ No, he normally prefers an audience of one, who both delights in and appreciates his brilliance, while giving him the balance and boundaries his genius lacks. Mind you, he is prone to being a bit of a prima donna on occasion. _

Sev had walked out to the middle of the floor and was addressing the crowd. “My friend here told me he has learned some new tricks. But he is holding out on us. His head is not fully in the game. What happens when we do that?”

“We get hurt!” chorused most of the room.

“And what do we tell him?” demanded Sev?

“Tell him to pull his head out of his arse and stop being such a drama queen,” the words echoed off the high ceiling before John realised he had spoken, and most of the audience turned in his direction in surprise.   
  
Sev paused and laughed, “A very British reply! Rude and accurate. What do you say, Sherlock?”

Standing there with a small smile on his face, Sherlock nodded in John’s direction, rewound his hair back, pulled his t-shirt off, tossing it aside, danced a little in place to loosen up, saying only, with a wry smile, “Remember, I warned you.”

A concerned murmuring rose from the crowd at the mess of scars on Sherlock’s back, an ugly, silvery tangle, several long-healed knife cuts on his ribs and shoulders. The faded yellow of a bruise decorated his left shoulder (a legacy of their last case). Excitement at the spectacle faded to respect for someone who carried those scars. 

_ John had stitched a few of them up himself, but they hadn’t spoken much about what had happened when Sherlock was Away (as he referred to it.)  _

As the bell rang again, everyone subtly leaned forward in anticipation of the final bout, John found himself holding his breath. This time both men circled around, taking the time to get their focus in, closing off everything except the opponent in front, inching ever closer.

Suspense built and, for John, the world seemed to go into slow motion - everything except the explosive energy as the two fighters finally let loose their limits and went all in. Sev had speed and leverage in his favour, Sherlock had reach and intensity of focus and, as it turned out, he  **did** have a few new tricks to share. Plus he had the energy he had conserved in the previous rounds.

Slowly, Sherlock outmatched Sev, just enough to show he was capable of it, not enough to publicly embarrass the other man. John had a horrible premonition he knew how this was going to end, as Sherlock shifted his stance. He started to make his way through the crowd to the front, leaving a trail of half said apologies in his wake.

Sure enough, twenty seconds later Sev was on the mat, groaning with a dislocated shoulder, Sherlock leaning over, sucking gulps of air in as he tried to apologise. John pushed through the people gathered around in concern, “I’m a doctor, let me through.”

Eventually the crowd got cleared out and Sev looked up at Sherlock, very distinctly tapping the mat three times, then looked at John, “Put it back, Dr. Watson. Andre will take me to the hospital. When it heals, Sherlock, you will teach me that move, yes?

John growled in frustration, “I taught him that bloody move. Idiots, the both of you.

“Right, sit up and face me, and put that arm on my shoulder. This is going to feel odd, and I need you to relax.” John massaged the muscles in the biceps and shoulder, talking Sev through it, and eventually the shoulder slid back into place.

Sev looked surprised and rolled his shoulder, wincing, “It does not hurt as much as it usually does.” Standing up carefully, holding his elbow, he looked at John, “You are in my beginner class, yes?”

John nodded before standing up, “Picked up a few things in Afghanistan. How many times have you popped that shoulder?”

Sev shrugged and flinched, “Enough. And yes, I will get an x-ray.” He turned to Sherlock with a grin, “Come back and teach your teacher, my friend. But for now, you will excuse me, yes?”

As they watched him leave, Sherlock said quietly from beside him, “John….” 

“Not now, Sherlock. Get your skinny arse over here so I can check out the damage. What the hell were you thinking?”

He poked and prodded, eliciting a few groans and winces, taking a silent inventory of the scars that Sherlock had managed to hide from him since his return.  _ They’ll talk about it later, but for now…. _

“Well, you are going to be sore tomorrow. Keep an eye on that rib, might need to strap it. But you’ll live. Prat.”

Bending to pick up his t-shirt with a hiss of sucked-in breath, Sherlock shook the hair off his sweaty forehead, “I was taking my own advice, if you must know.” Flexing his shoulders with a moue of pain he sighed, “I’m a bit more out of shape than I realised.”

Looking at the sleek lines of muscle clearly visible under that pale, scarred skin, John swallowed and said roughly, “Bloody eat the food I put in front of you for a change, then.” He wrinkled his nose, “You need a shower. Take your time, I’ll wait out front.”

Grabbing his bag from the wall, he pushed through the door to the main gym, not expecting to be mobbed by a crowd of students, Donna at the forefront, demanding gossip and details. However, John had had enough experience with the press to easily deflect their questions until they gave up in frustration.

Donna gave him one last poke, her brown eyes bright as she said, “I’ll beat it out of you, see if I don’t.” John replied only, “See you next week. And strap that wrist of yours.”

As he paced idly, easing out his tired muscles, John thought about Sherlock.  _ The feel of that scar tissue under his finger tips, the dips and hollows of his collarbone, the sheen of sweat as those sleek muscles coiled and bunched.  _ Normally so controlled and distant, the sheer physicality of him had hit John like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless and dizzy.

_ It was one thing to touch him as a doctor. That was permitted, allowed… welcomed, even. But… oh, god, what wouldn’t he give for the possibility of more…. He would lay kisses on every scar, every blemish on that glorious skin… worship with his hands and his mouth…. He wanted to taste every inch of Sherlock… lie him down and peel back all the layers until there was only bare, naked honesty between them, and nothing else… god, he wants so much… to give and to take… to hear his name on those perfect lips… _

“John!” Fingers clicked in front of his face impatiently, “Earth to John?”

Snapping out of his erotic daydream, John blinked. “What?” he said eloquently, and felt a betraying heat across his cheekbones.

Staring at him with an odd expression, Sherlock said only, “Hmmm. Indian or Thai?”

With a groan as his stomach woke up, John said, “God, I’d kill for some fish and chips, actually.”

Sherlock brightened, “Oh, we haven’t had that in ages. Come on, then. I find myself with an appetite.”

_ You and me both…  _ John followed with a sigh.

_ That night he has trouble sleeping, but it’s not nightmares that keep him awake. Instead, the vision of a shirtless, sweating Sherlock has him moaning into a pillow while fucking his fist until he comes so hard it almost hurts. _

_ At least he sleeps well afterwards… _

**************************************************   
  
“Actually it's been a little quiet, just your normal run-of-the-mill stabbings and so on.” Lestrade held the door of his office open for Sherlock. “Good for the team to get back to basics. Where d’you fancy for lunch?”

Settling his coat on his shoulders, Sherlock frowned at the activity in the scene room. “Did you have a big case on the go? Looks like everyone is in there.”

Frowning, Greg said, “Not one of ours. Just pop in on the way past, yeah?”

The buzz of noise was unusual. It had the happy, excited feel you don’t normally get in most police crime scenes (unless you were Sherlock). Greg mumbled, “What the hell… oh….”

Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking at a frozen image of himself on the screen at the dark end of the room. Of course, someone had videoed his fight and put it online. He sighed and waited for the inevitable.

Greg turned and raised an eyebrow as the room fell silent in anticipation of what he would say. Pausing for dramatic effect, the detective said, “Leggings? Really?” Muffled giggles from several people, including Anderson, caused Sherlock to roll his eyes.

“Looks like you only got as far as the second round.” Trying not to be too dismissive he asked, “Did you watch all the way to the end?”

A voice said, from a corner, “Not yet, there was a lot of faffing about. Skipped it.”

With a slow edged smile, Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the door frame, “Jump forward about 20 minutes.”

With a few stops and starts, they got to the bit where Sev was talking and Sherlock said, “Here. Start here.”

The cameraperson was behind Sherlock in the audience, getting a closeup of Sev talking, then pulling back for a clear shot of his back as he slid his t-shirt off. Several people swore softly at the sight, some turning to look his way with various expressions, but the action on the screen captivated everyone.

Sherlock used the opportunity to study his technique, noting where he was a bit sloppy, slower than he should have been, seeing how Sev had used his experience to his benefit. So focussed was he on the analysis that the round of applause he got from the room was a surprise.

Greg hustled everyone out with a “Show’s over, back to work, crimes to solve,” and he walked Sherlock out before anyone got the chance to question him further.

*   
  
They placed their lunch orders (steak, eggs, and chips for two) and slowly appreciated their coffees. Sherlock let the silence linger until Greg asked, “So, how is John doing, really?”

Cupping his hands around the coffee mug for comfort, Sherlock said slowly, “Not good, but also better, I think. I’m sorry to deprive you of our services, but it was a necessary reprieve.”

“Oh don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson put a right flea in my ear about it last time I dropped ‘round.” Greg slumped in his chair a bit, “He's so quiet and steady, you forget his history. The PTSD. I should have seen it myself - not sure which is worse, burnout or desensitisation.” He looked at Sherlock with those tired eyes, another veteran of a different war - this one fought on the streets of London - who had seen his own share of death and violence, and shrugged.

“John is a complex man… he hides things from himself. John… feels things deeply and has a strong moral code. He’s had to make choices that mean he crossed a line… and I don’t think he has processed that. Not in the way he needs to.” Picking his words carefully, Sherlock looked away from the detective who sometimes saw too much. “He had a difficult relationship with his family. His father was a violent drunk.”

“Yeah, I figured as much. John is very good at not saying a lot of things.” Dark brown eyes twinkled at him, “Speaking of not saying much, what the hell was that about? The video?”

Fortunately, at that moment, their food was delivered and both men tucked in. Eventually, Sherlock shoved his plate over to Greg to polish off the last of his chips (having eaten twice as much as he preferred, mindful of John’s words), and sat back with a sigh.

“Are you asking about the state of my back, or the fight?” Sherlock asked lightly, but with an edge that Greg acknowledged with a grin of his own.  _ It was almost comforting, how well he knew Lestrade. Given their history together, Sherlock could relax with Greg in a way he found difficult with other people. _

“We both know you wouldn’t tell me about the scars even if I asked, and I’m sure there is a horror story behind them, but it’s your business, Sherlock. Where the hell did you learn to fight like that? Why is it on the Internet?” Greg sat back with a thoughtful frown, “Why did you pull that last throw? You should have snapped his elbow.”

Startled into a genuine laugh, Sherlock smiled at Lestrade, “He is an old friend and one of my best teachers. I had forgotten his shoulder was prone to dislocation, and was hardly going to leave him with permanent damage. But yes, there are several ways to finish off that particular throw,” he grinned evilly.

Raising his eyebrows, Greg snorted, “Yeah, I can imagine. But what were you doing there, fighting like that? Impressive as hell, by the way.”

“It’s for John. He needs… a physical outlet for his emotional health.  _ Krav maga _ suited his temperament and style, so I took him to my old gym. Sev was my old teacher, and we were catching up, and he and I got to talking and ….”

“Pride and Vanity goeth before a fall, Sherlock.” Greg rolled his eyes, “Smart as you are, you still haven’t figured out that the best way to get you to do something is to imply you can’t.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock smugly. “Effective, isn't it, manipulating people's emotions and expectations.”

With an offended sniff, Greg waved the waiter over, “Another round of coffee and two slices of red velvet cake, please.”

They waited until the coffee and cake were served before resuming the conversation. Greg got to the point, “Look, I understand that John needs a break, and I respect that. But I need you too. So be straight with me, Sherlock. What can I do to help?”

Frowning into his coffee, Sherlock said quietly, “He is seeing his therapist twice a week, and has had her security clearance raised. It's helping, but you know as well as I do that it takes time. He’s eating better, and the exercise is helping. But he’s… haunted…. Greg… some things are triggers for him. John cares too much, and he struggles with balancing the different aspects of his personality.”

“How bad is it then? Nightmares? Mrs. Hudson was very concerned. The neighbours complained. I had a word with them.”

“Rather you than me, and your ‘kindly detective inspector’ is quite effective on occasion.” 

Greg muttered, “Prat.”

“The nightmares are… not good. He’s hurting, and I … I can’t make it stop. One night… god, you should have heard it, he sounded… feral… it was horrifying to hear.”

“The children? I had nightmares after that one myself.”

“He… asked me to stay with him… afterwards. Didn’t want to be alone.”

Realisation dawned on Lestrade. “You mean, you slept together? Same bed?”

“Oh don’t be obtuse, of course that's what I meant. He needed comfort, and you would have done the same thing, had you been there.”

“Course, yes, mates and all that. Still, must have been awkward in the morning. Light of day can be a bit different.”

Surprised to see a hint of pink tinge those notable cheekbones, Greg held back a smirk as Sherlock avoided eye contact, saying only, “I left before he woke up.”

_ Ahhhh… that's how it was, then. Even the Brilliant Detective’s too-human body betrays him on occasion. Was it embarrassment or… something else? _

As a slightly awkward silence settled, Sherlock demolished the rest of his cake while Greg pondered what he had been told. As they left the cafe, he stopped Sherlock with a hand on his arm and paused for a moment, looking up at the other man. 

“Next time, you should stay. ‘Til he wakes up. Get up and make breakfast or whatever afterwards, but wait ‘til he’s awake enough to know you were still there. I know it’s sentiment, but it matters. To him. Trust me on this, just for once.”

Sherlock gave him that look that felt like laser beams had just x-rayed his brain, but said only, “I’ve trusted you many times, Lestrade, and you haven’t let me down. I think John would appreciate talking to you. You should come ‘round for dinner one night. I will make myself scarce.”

“Don’t surprise him with it. He needs to know it will be only social, and I’ll do my best to not talk shop.”

Sherlock did that one-sided smile that meant he was mildly amused. “I’m sure there is a sports team somewhere, failing miserably, that you can argue over.”

“Oh, piss off, smart arse.”

* 

“So you’re here to check up on me, then?” John settled into his chair, glass of wine at hand, as Greg settled tentatively into Sherlock’s ‘throne’, as he usually thought of it. Sherlock had disappeared downstairs on some errand for Mrs. Hudson, leaving them conveniently alone to chat.

“John, I’m here as a friend, only that. I heard you were doing… better…, and wanted to catch up. We can sit here and drink wine and bitch about Sherlock, or watch crappy TV, or talk. Whatever you want.”

Looking slightly apologetic, John nodded, “Well it’s not much fun bitching about Sherlock when he can’t hear us. Any interesting gossip from the Yard? Has Anderson’s wife left him yet?”

_ Okay, that’s how it’s going to be. I can work with that…. _ Greg settled down into his seat more comfortably, “Well there was this video, of a certain person beating the living shit out of some poor guy, doing the rounds of the office.”

“Yeah, Sally Donovan sent it to me. She was mildly impressed, I think.”

“What, that he didn’t kill him?” Greg laughed, “She’s still convinced he’ll snap one day.”

_ Oh shit… that was the  _ **_wrong_ ** _ thing to say… _

Watching as John’s face twisted with what Greg assumed was self-loathing or similar, John swallowed his wine down in angry gulps before saying hoarsely, “What are they saying about  **me** then, the guy who couldn’t hack it?”

Pulling his phone out, Greg keyed up a video before handing it over, saying only, “I’ll let them tell you themselves.” John's left hand shook slightly as he held the phone and watched the familiar faces of the NSY team wish him well, ask him to come visit, say how much they missed him, offer to take him out for a drink. It finished with Donovan saying, “Kick Sherlock’s skinny arse out of bed and come out with the people who like you, John!”

Greg watched as the tremor got worse, so wasn’t surprised when John choked out, “Oh Jesus,” and noisily began to cry. Not sure if he should be pleased or worried about this, he scooted forward onto his knees next to John, carefully reaching out to embrace his crying friend. John leaned into his shoulder and cried like his heart was breaking. Sherlock silently opened the sitting room door enough to look in, but Greg shook his head, mouthing ‘I’ve got this.’

Focusing on being a solid presence, Greg lightly held John, rubbing a hand over his shoulders and murmuring soothing nonsense until the worst of the storm was over. When it was quiet enough Greg started talking, “My first murder scene, I was still wet behind the ears. Got my A levels and joined the force as an apprentice. Learn-on-the-job was how we did it in those days, threw you into the worst of it back then.”

Letting one arm drop to give John some breathing space, Greg continued, “Was dead keen to prove myself, I’m sure I was an annoying little shit most of the time. Someone had probably been hoping for my comeuppance sooner rather than later. Then the call came in. At least a week old decomp in a locked garage… in summer. Yeah I know what you’re thinking, but no, I didn’t lose my lunch over the victim, though it was close. I ran for the door and heaved right down the front of the DI who was just about to walk into the scene.”

As John’s shoulders shook with laughter instead of tears against him he said, “If you tell anyone that, I  **will** have to kill you. They called me Greenie for months after that.” He pulled a vaguely clean handful of tissues out of his back pocket and passed them over, “Here you go, mate.”

While John busied himself cleaning up, Greg got up and poured them each a finger of the good whisky (he knew where it was kept), setting one on the arm of the chair next to John. Retrieving his phone, he gave John some space to calm down, watching in his peripheral vision as John got up, washed his face and faffed about for a bit.

When he sat down and sipped at the whisky, Greg continued, “There's a book I read a while ago that summarises some advice my old Sergeant gave me, once I was out on the streets. He said, ‘you have to care just enough to make a difference. More than that and this job will eat you alive’.”

John said hoarsely, “Yeah they tell you that in medical school, too. They make it easy by making sure you’re too exhausted to care about anything, most of the time.”

“When you’re that young, you can survive on naps and enough caffeine to stun a horse. Yeah, I remember.” Greg shook his head, “God, were we ever that young?”

“Hard to believe. Now, when you wake up, everything hurts and you groan when you sit down.” John smiled, a little wobbly, mind, but it was genuine, and Greg began to breathe a little easier. Maybe he was helping after all.

“What did that book say?” John asked while admiring the expensive amber alcohol in the Waterford Crystal tumblers Mycroft had given them for Christmas one year.

“Oh,” Greg snorted, “Give your fucks wisely.” 

John huffed a laugh, “Really?”

“Yeah, its called ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck.’ Donovan gave it to me for my birthday. It’s actually really good. I’ll dig it out for you.”

Nodding, John said quietly, “Did it work for you, that advice?”

Greg sat in silence, marshalling his thoughts. The way he replied here might make all the difference. “Back in those days, you didn’t get the support you do now - counselling, people recognising that burnout and PTSD and ongoing exposure to violence can have an impact.”

Closing his eyes to savour the burn of the single-malt, Greg continued, “The older, experienced guys did their best to help. Some managed better than others. I had nightmares on and off, still do sometimes. Some people, well, they care too much and load themselves up with guilt or regret, and eventually it breaks them. You have to learn to care enough to do the job, and let the rest of it go.”

He looked up at John with sadness, “I drank too much for a while, broke up my marriage. Ironic that couples counselling got me into therapy. Talking about that shit is hard, but it helps. But sometimes you need to talk to someone who… knows.”

Nodding in agreement, and also acknowledging the offer, John asked, “Who do you talk to?”

Tilting his head with a shy smile, Greg said, “Oddly enough, Sherlock. He can be so detached, but his perspective and analysis take all the emotion out of it. Gives you clarity and distance. That helps a lot.”

“How many times did you make him explain it before it made sense, though?” John asked wryly, and Greg rolled his eyes.

“Patience was never his virtue. Poor guy, having to make exceptions for us boring people.” 

Greg grinned at John, who nodded and replied, “Don’t forget slow. And uninteresting.”

The landing creaked again as Sherlock gave up eavesdropping and wandered into the kitchen, bearing a plate full of muffins, frowning, saying only, “And drinking my bloody whisky.”

John cleared his throat pointedly, and Sherlock said, “ _ Our _ bloody whisky. Be nice to me, I brought cake.”

*

Greg dropped the bright orange book around a week later. John did read it, even took it to his sessions with Ella. It helped reframe some of his personal issues in a way that she had been able to understand.   
  
John and Greg caught up for dinner several times, Sherlock carefully giving them the space to talk. He and Greg also talked separately, but only in very general terms, respecting John’s privacy. The nightmares decreased in intensity and frequency, and John was beginning to make positive progress.

Neither of them were prepared to take it for granted.


	3. Ghosts From Our Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both John and Sherlock have to face up to some truths that they have suppressed. Wisely, John chooses the mediated structure of therapy for the both of them, and it has its ups and downs.
> 
> If you want to have a future together you have to lay to rest the demons in your past, sometimes that is not as easy as you would like it to be....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *******************************************************************  
> Well this has gone in an ENTIRELY different direction from the first chapter - possibly nearly halfway through the story as it is, so if you are still reading THANKYOU!!
> 
> Much KUDOS for @Hatknitter, who not only brainstormed a lot of the plot development with me, but turned sections of this into complete magic with her amazing ability with appropriate tense - Her contributions have made this story infinitely better - Thankyou Dear Lady!
> 
> ********************************************************************

“I want you to come to therapy with me,” John announced over breakfast, rather abruptly. He had been toying with the crusts from his toast, crumbling them between his fingers, obviously nervous about something.

Sherlock gave his tea a stir, trying not to read John, but the combination  _ of anxiety, doubt, hope, fear, and… shame?  _ that he was broadcasting was hard to avoid. 

“There are some things that I can’t talk about, even with Ella’s new security clearance. You may not get all the answers you are hoping for. Some things need to stay secret. Can you accept that I will have some boundaries I’m not willing or able to cross?” Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye as he spoke, deliberately keeping his tone neutral.

“Can you not be an arse about it?” John said in a resigned tone of voice.

“I promise to genuinely try my best, and I give you permission to call me out on it. Sometimes I can’t always tell…,” Sherlock sounded a bit embarrassed about that. 

“Yeah,” John said fondly, “I’ve noticed. A bit not good?”

“Ah, our first case, how appropriate. Have you given Ella fair warning?” Sherlock crinkled his eyes at John over his tea.

Looking at Sherlock, slouched in his pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown, bare feet, and bed hair,  _ and fucking delicious and, Oh My God, get a grip on yourself, Watson. And  _ **_not_ ** _ like that... _

With a rueful sigh, John said, “Probably not. No one ever believes me until they meet you in person.”

Sherlock smirked at him, and John sighed again.

******

Sherlock arranged to meet with Ella separately in advance. It would waste valuable time to bring her up to speed during John’s session, plus there were things he needed to say without John being present.

He talked quietly, intensely, while he gave her necessary backstory and context for their relationship. He answered all of the questions he could, explaining enough for her to understand why he couldn’t answer all of them.

She was thoughtful, considered, and remarkably unruffled by a lot of what he told her. As they discussed the likely reasons for Sherlock’s requested presence at John’s sessions, he sensed she was taking his measure as much as he was taking hers. He could see why John would find her easy to talk to, and he found himself respecting her professionalism.

Finally, he passed her an envelope marked ‘John’ in his spiky handwriting, which she took with a frown. 

“I feel like you just handed me a grenade with the pin pulled out.” She looked at him with heavy seriousness. “Some of what you have told me aligns with what John has said. The rest… sounds like a plot from some James Bond story. How do I know you are telling the truth? Why should I trust you?”

Twitching the corner of his mouth, he considered sending Mycroft round for a ‘visit’. Instead, he stood up and slid his jacket off. Silently, he unbuttoned his shirt, turned around, and slipped it down to his waist, baring his back so that the scars were fully visible. When he heard her soft, “My God,” he dressed and sat down.

“I can provide more proof if necessary. However, it would require you to sign a variant of the Official Secrets Act, among other things.” It was simply fact, so he tried not to make his words too challenging.

Ella waved a hand in dismissal. “I think that will be sufficient, thank you, but I have one more question.”

“Go on.”

“Why are you willing to do this for John? I can tell that the idea of therapy is not quite abhorrent to you, but you certainly dismiss it in relation to yourself. What is your… motivation… for want of a better term?”

_ And so it begins, when I must slowly begin to take down all the walls and defences. Because while they keep me safe, they also keep me away from those who… care about me. John needs me, he needs this, and therefore I must. _

Looking out the window, Sherlock said, “Did he tell you I faked my own death?”

He could hear the judgement in her reply, “Yes, it's one of the things he still hasn’t come to terms with. If I might use John’s term for it, it was a ‘right royal mindfuck, and not in a good way.’ I’m hoping that's one of the things we might finally resolve.”

“I did it because, at the time, it was the only way I could think of to solve the problem at hand. My motivation was to save his life, and to do it I pretended to kill myself in front of him. In hindsight, it wasn’t the wisest of choices, but I need you to understand….” He turned and looked at Ella with the full force of everything he had, “I would do  **anything** to save John.”

Ella smiled a tiny knowing smile at him, “Faking your own death was you running away from the consequences of your decisions, Sherlock. You don’t have that choice now, and I need you to fully commit to these sessions. For John’s sake, no mindgames. Promise?”

His respect for her grew, and he gave her a genuine smile and a nod, “I’ve already promised John not to be an arse about it. Will that do?”

She stood up and gave him another measuring glance. “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, Sherlock. Remember that your choices have consequences. What are you willing to risk? Because you risk losing John completely if you get this wrong.”

That rocked him back on his heels, and he missed what she said next. “Sorry?”

“I said, how will I know when to give him the envelope?” she asked with a hint of impatience - they had gone far beyond the usual session time. Luckily, he had booked a double.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it will be quite obvious at the time. If not, I will remind you.”

“Well, I appreciate the additional information, and I will see you on Tuesday next week.” As he turned to leave she said quietly, “Thank you, Sherlock. John has told me a little of what you have done for him. It helps more than you realise.”

Surprised to be granted the grace of her kindness, he simply nodded and left. But her words lingered, and he lost himself walking the London streets, feeling the heartbeat of the city pulse around him as he contemplated what to do about it.

_ It was difficult, growing up a gifted child in a household with a mother and older brother who were both unmitigated geniuses. A child who thought himself an idiot, until they met other children. But ‘smart’ doesn’t necessarily equal ‘socially acute’. I was the strange kid, and school meant bullying - physical and emotional abuse that drove me into myself as a form of self protection.  _

_ Finally, at University, there was relief and freedom of an environment that encouraged my mind to thrive, but by then the social damage was done. I built my walls, protected myself with emotional isolation and sarcasm, became anti-social, introverted, aloof, an acerbic, sardonic freak of a man. _

_ Then came the revelation that I could learn by observation of social interactions of ‘normal’ people. Learn to fake emotions well enough to exploit others. But there was no genuine human connection, until Victor. Victor, glorious Victor, with his compliments and his seductions, and the allure of drugs, the escape from my overactive mind. Heady, dizzy days of what I didn’t realize was abuse, until I found myself callously abandoned when he tired of me. My first trip to rehab was a reality check of the most unpleasant kind. _

_ Off the drugs, depressed and bored, I started studying unsolved crimes. It was fascinating, distracting and wonderfully challenging. I read and studied, observed and noted, found I had a gift for analyzing information. Then there was Lestrade, the best NSY had to offer, but still so slow! That one crime scene, finally badgering him into listening to me, seeing the light in his eyes as he saw what I saw. A new connection made. I allowed myself to let some barriers down.  _

_ Lestrade demanded I stay clean, took time to check in, getting to know the skinny, dark-haired addict I was then. A freak with a brilliant mind and a crap way of expressing it. Eventually, the rest of the NSY team reluctantly grew to respect my abilities, grudgingly accepted my analyses, began to expect more from me. Finding a purpose and a usefulness changed me profoundly.  _

_ But not until that fateful day, when John walked into the Bart’s lab behind Stamford, did I begin to understand what it might mean to actually  _ care _ about another person - to use them as a moral compass, to understand the world through their actions and behaviours. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ John… is a revelation… in so many ways. _

_ Would that I had been brave enough to tell him before now… _

**********************************

Ella watched the door to her office slam behind John as he stormed out, but she waved Sherlock down as he rose to follow.

“Let him go. He’ll walk it off, hopefully. It's not ideal, but that looks more like frustration than anger.” She shuffled her notes and frowned at Sherlock, “You need to take some responsibility for this too.”

Staring down at a spot on the carpet, fingers twitching in irritation, Sherlock heaved a sigh. “I can’t change the past, and I did warn you both that there are some things I cannot explain.”

“Sherlock…” Ella sounded weary, it had been a difficult session. “You could be kinder in the way you say things. Facts are not enough. You have to have empathy too. How you survived your childhood I have no idea.”

_ Those hooded eyes rose to meet hers with frightening intensity, sending a shiver down her spine.  _

“I almost didn’t, and only succeeded by learning how to distance myself from other people’s messy emotions.” He looked away for a long moment, “Genius is forgiven many social behavioural quirks, as are drug addicts.”

Ella sat with that for a long moment, listening to the asynchronous tap-tap of his fingertips on the arm of the chair. She gathered up her notes and stood, waiting until Sherlock looked up at her.

“That may have been the case then, but it won’t work here, not now. Not when John needs you to be as vulnerable and open as he is… trying to be. I’d recommend you talk to someone about your extremely limited social skills, but I suspect you would run rings around them.”

He dipped his chin in acknowledgement of the hit, but surprised her with his reply. “If you can find someone who genuinely wants to help, and won’t judge or pigeonhole me, then yes, I would be willing to work on it.” He stood and buttoned his jacket before facing her again, “I am not a diagnosis to be exploited, but a complex person who might benefit from a little guidance.”

Ella studied the face in front of her. 

_ I can see in the brittle way he’s holding himself that there is a history there. Perhaps a parade of different doctors and psychologists, so astonished by the acute brilliance of a child that they couldn’t see what he really needed. After the first lab-rat experience, there would be little patience from a prickly personality for further pointless questions and tests. Yes… I can see, quite clearly, why he has no faith in a so-called expert’s ability to help him.  _

“I have a friend who works with neuro-atypical patients. Not just those on the spectrum, but people with severe head trauma. Her focus is always on what the patient needs. Her approach has been a bit controversial, but her patients fiercely defend her. If you are willing to bend that proud neck of yours and meet her part way, I think it might be a good fit.” Ella hoped Justine would forgive her for the referral, but then, she did love a challenge.

With a wicked grin, he did indeed bend that proud neck. “If she is as good as you are, I should be in very capable hands. Please, make the introductions.”

_ God, he can be charming when he wants to. No wonder he gets away with the rest of it. _

“Sherlock, do something nice for John tonight. Surprise him. You upset him today - more talking won’t help. But you can offer an oblique apology, or at least concede you were in the wrong by doing something he wouldn’t expect. Cook dinner, clean the house, some task he would normally end up doing. Non-verbal communication can make a big difference. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I should give him space, listen if he wants to talk but not engage in debate that may antagonise him. Home should always be a safe haven for him.” Sherlock spoke slowly, not reciting so much as qualifying his perception of the situation.

Unable to hold back a smile, she beamed at him, “Oh, very good. I am impressed. Well done, I know that was a hard-won admission. I’m proud of you.”

Something complicated but subtle flickered across his face, and Sherlock squared his shoulders, murmuring, “Have a pleasant evening,” as he left.

_ Ah, now that was an interesting response. Praise is a trigger for him, something he possibly didn’t get a lot of as a child? That puts John’s behaviour in more context…. There just might be hope for both of them. _

***** 

John climbed tiredly up the stairs to the flat. He had walked off his frustration and anger, eventually finding a random park with a pond, some ducks, and a conveniently empty bench.

He knew Sherlock wasn’t deliberately trying to be an arsehole, but John had so much bitterness and anger built up that he didn’t always have control over how he expressed himself. Ironically, it led to even more annoyance at the situation, and he’d just had to … escape.

He’d sent a text to Ella, apologising and letting her know he was alright, and eventually sent one to Sherlock saying he would be home later. As a pair of curious ducks wandered over in the hope of treats, he leaned his elbows on his knees, hung his head, and tried not to hate himself even more.

So still was he that the drake came up and nibbled hopefully at his shoelaces, before pecking at his trouser leg and then wandering off. “Sorry, mate, I’ve got nothing…”

_ … no hope, no future…. Sherlock once gave me a purpose, a reason to keep going…. At first it was the thrill of the chase. I was hooked on the adrenaline rush of the unexpected, and he gave that back to me…. It was enough… I made it be enough… until eventually it wasn’t…. _

_ … until Moriarty ruined everything… undermined Sherlock… made him doubt himself… until he could see only one way out… one that meant he had to lie to me, his so-called best friend…. I should have been there, by his side… protecting him… he didn’t give me the option...  _

_ I loved him, and he was gone... and I slowly, painfully, tried to come to terms with that… _

_ God, the overwhelming grief, the aching loss, seeking numbness in alcohol, trying to drown the nightmares, barely existing, stunned at how quickly it all went so very wrong… haunted (still haunted) by the words I’ve never been brave enough to say... then it was too late. He was gone...  _

_... until he wasn’t.  _

_ Hope is the cruelest emotion. Wanting something so badly you ache, deep down, until your very soul knows nothing else… _

_ … then for that wish to be magically granted…. “Don’t be dead”… _

_... and then he wasn’t.  _

_ My love for him… it’s overwhelming. But I hate him too, for making me suffer, for leaving me behind…. God, it hurts so much some days... knowing he was tortured, beaten, when I should have been there to get him out… stupid, stiff-necked idiot who thinks he knows best… _

_ … Fuck, I want to pummel the smirk off that gorgeous face, teach him a lesson, make him understand … but my heart, traitor that it is, stays my hand… trapped between what I need and what I crave…  _

_ … it’s a festering, poisoned sore, and soon it will have to be lanced… _

_ I am so afraid… of what I might do or say… I’ve lost Sherlock once... _

_ … it would destroy me to lose him again… _

_ But if I’m going to deal with this… it's a risk I have to take… _

_ I can’t choose between my sanity and Sherlock. Not again… _

For the first time in a long time, John felt a calm clarity settle on him. With a deep breath, he realized he knew what he wanted, and what he was prepared to concede. A direction and a goal made the next forward step possible.

It would take a level of personal honesty they had always skirted the edges of, wary of crossing each other’s unknown boundaries. John remembered something he had been told in medical school - “If you don’t ask, you don’t get.”

He was done with the wondering. It was time to lay his cards on the table, ask the questions, go all in and see what happened.  _ It’s the not knowing that’s doing my head in _ . 

With a shiver, he realised it was twilight. He had been sitting, lost in thought, for a good couple of hours. Hopefully, there would still be leftovers in the fridge when he got home.

***** 

Sherlock was singing along to  _ Nessun Dorma _ in Italian. His baritone was a little deep for the tenor line, but it imbued the notes with a gravitas that pleased him. So he didn’t hear the door when John walked into the flat. In fact, it was the smothered laughter that alerted him to the fact he wasn’t alone.

Clad in ratty joggers, slippers, a faded grey henley, one of Mrs. Hudson’s pink floral aprons, and lime green rubber gloves, Sherlock looked up from the sink of dishes he was washing and quirked an eyebrow.

John dissolved into helpless laughter, leaning against the archway, gasping for breath, gesturing at Sherlock. Who deigned to look down at himself, raised an eyebrow, gave an offended sniff, and returned to his dishes, saying only, “I  _ could _ be naked, instead.”

Muttering something that sounded like, “Promises, promises,” John turned the music down to a level that allowed conversation and wandered over to sniff appreciatively at the bolognese sauce that sat, now slightly congealed, in the pan on the gas hob.

“It's a shame you only cook when you feel guilty about something,” John said lightly, as he gave it a stir and turned the gas on low to reheat it.

Sherlock winced at the accuracy of John’s comment, saying only, “The pasta’s a bit soggy but it will do. I wasn’t sure when you might be home. Wine?”

Dipping his finger in the sauce and licking it off with a ‘Mmmm’ and a nod, John picked up a tea towel and started drying the dishes on the bench. “I was expecting to choose between leftovers or pickled eyeballs, or whatever is in the fridge today.”

They attended to the domestic tasks in harmony with each other. Sherlock served dinner as John set the table, and they ate in appreciation of a home-cooked meal.

“Next time, maybe some garlic bread?” John ran his finger over his plate, licking the sauce off his finger, “Shame to waste this, it’s really good.” He smiled that familiar, fond, approving smile he used when he was genuinely pleased.

Having expected him to be riled and edgy, Sherlock was a little uncertain what to do with this calm, centered John. This was how he used to be, before Moriarty, before it had all gone so terribly wrong…

_ … Before you tried to play God… tried to be the hero you said you never could be… _

_ … Before you took away all his choices… his agency… _

_ … Oh… I begin to understand… _

“That can be arranged,” Sherlock said with lofty dignity, and John rolled his eyes and laughed.

“Yeah, well it’s guaranteed you will fuck up again at some point. Pity. You’re a good cook, this is way better than takeaways. Be nice if you cooked more often.” Cocking his head, he carried on pointedly, “Though the dishes are still your problem tonight.”

Hesitantly, Sherlock said, “I could cook more often. I don’t have an extensive repertoire though.”

John shrugged, picking his glass up from the table, “Cooking’s just chemistry? Thought I heard some smartarse say that once. Consider it an experiment.” With an utterly evil grin, he wandered off to the sitting room to slouch in his chair.

Baffled, Sherlock did indeed do the dishes without complaint, putting the leftovers safely in a container in the fridge away from the semi-dissected kidneys in the veg drawer. Then he sat in his chair and swirled the heavy crimson wine in his glass, casting half glances at John.

Eventually, John sighed in exasperation. “Yes, Sherlock, we’re fine. No need to tread on eggshells. It’s beginning to creep me out a bit.”

Giving John his favourite bastard smirk, Sherlock said smugly, “You are complaining about me being nice to you, you realise?”

“Yes, the irony is not lost on me, I assure you. Can you just be your normal weird, please? I can cope with that.” John sank deeper into his chair as he relaxed, stretching his legs out, wriggling his toes.

Sherlock was surprised by a thought.  _ Maybe I can actually have this… domestic bliss?… for want of a better term? _

“Normal weird is an oxymoron,” Sherlock said with a touch of impatience, and was gratified to see John smile.

“And there he is, back to his annoying self.”

_ Something fundamental happened to John while he was out. He’s come to terms with whatever it is that’s been troubling him. Given his demeanour, it seems to be a… positive… thing… _

_ … But I can’t quite shake off the feeling that we’re moving toward the final showdown… _

_ … that everything I hope for might be at risk if I’m not prepared to match John... _

_ Oh… I see it now… this is a battle I can  _ **_only_ ** _ win… by losing…. I have to risk everything… stake my play on one roll of the dice… _

_ I should have told him that I love him… I should have trusted him… _

_ I’ve made so many mistakes… is it too late to redeem myself? _

That night, he crept out of bed, sat on the stairs outside John’s room, and let himself cry silent, bitter tears as he began to come to terms with the choices and mistakes he had made, to accept his responsibility in how badly he had hurt John.

_ Was love supposed to hurt this much? _

_ No wonder he is so angry with me. _

_ I deserve his censure. _

***************************************************************************

Sherlock paced, frustration driving him to his feet as John sat, hunched in his chair, face set in anger. No matter what he said, he couldn’t say the  _ right _ thing… it scared him, how withdrawn John had become.

He turned, spreading his hands to explain when John growled “ **Enough** .”

John looked up at him with crackling intensity, eyes dark under a forehead creased with a heavy frown. “Enough! I do not care about your reasons, logic or theories. Jesus, Sherlock, after all this time you  _ still _ don’t get it, do you?”

Uncertain if that was rhetorical, he glanced at Ella, who unhelpfully shrugged. But when he opened his mouth to reply, John surged out of his chair with such energy it forced Sherlock back a step.

“No, I’m  _ done _ listening.” Fists clenched and trembling, chin jutting forward, shoulders hunched, John was spoiling for a fight and Sherlock looked away, reluctant to challenge him further. With an inarticulate growl of annoyance, John stalked away, visibly tried to relax with a few deep breaths.

“You told me once that heroes don’t exist, and even if they did, you wouldn’t be one of them. Do you remember?” Sherlock nodded, John had been angry with him then too. The muscles in John’s jaw flexed under the strain of his control, and even Ella was looking a little concerned. 

_ When they say you walk the razor’s edge, this must be what it feels like… _

Speaking through tightly clenched teeth, the way he did when he was furious, John spat words like bullets, and Sherlock felt the impact of each and every one.

“So tell me, oh brilliant genius. Tell me why  _ you _ decided what had to be done? Hmmm? Tell me why you lied to me, let me think I saw your body, broken and bleeding and  _ dead _ on the ground. I still fucking see it when I sleep, you know.”

John’s anger was palpable, but Sherlock held himself steady. It was past time and this was the cathartic release John needed. Whatever happened next, Sherlock deserved nothing less than to bear witness to his friend’s pain.

“You and Mycroft had it all planned out. But you forgot one thing, Sherlock. You forgot we were a team. Christ…” he ran a hand through his hair, “There were so many other ways it could have gone down. God,  _ Molly _ knew. How could you tell her and not me?”

He looked at Sherlock with haunted eyes, “How could you leave me behind, knowing what you were getting into. I could have waited a couple of months, joined you later. Made up a story about being mad with grief and needing to get away. Wouldn’t have been far from the truth.”

_ The raw bitterness in John’s voice… all that resentment… the fury at other people making decisions on his behalf. Sherlock deeply understood that… he knew that any apology he could make, had been trying to make, would never be enough. _

Laughing with a hoarse, broken sound, John stalked around him, predatory and threatening. “Moriarty told you he was going to burn the heart out of you. But instead, you,  **_YOU_ ** tore mine apart in some oh, so heroic, noble sacrifice - that I never asked of you!”

_ John was right. Molly had made a point of telling him how wrong he was when they were planning everything. But he had gotten so caught up in the cleverness of the thing, he forgot that actual people were involved.  _

He had tried to be the hero, and while he had succeeded in his mission, he had failed completely. Because, as it turns out, you cannot save people from themselves. Even the great Sherlock Holmes was still only a fallible human being, prone to the same mistakes as anyone else.

“You  _ left _ me, Sherlock. God, I trusted you, I loved you, but you were so convinced you were right, it never occurred to you to even  _ ask  _ for my help. You made me hate you…” Tears glittered on John’s face, unnoticed. “Then you waltz back in, as if nothing ever happened. Not dead. You utter, utter cock.”

Stepping into his personal space, vibrating with tightly leashed fury, his eyes dark as he snarled at Sherlock, “So many words I’ve heard from you, and never  _ once _ did I hear you admit you were  **WRONG** . How can I accept an apology from you when you can’t even take responsibility for what you did… to me… to us? Why no one else is holding you accountable… fuck, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to  _ try _ now.”

All the energy drained out of him, John swayed a little. “I would have done  _ anything _ for you, and you left me behind. Why, Sherlock, why wasn’t I enough?”

He wobbled a bit, and Sherlock carefully approached, arms out, saying softly, “I’m so sorry, John.” With a sob, John leaned into his embrace and he held him, uncaring of the hot stream of tears down his own face as he gave John whatever comfort he could.   
  
Silently, Ella got up, pulling a familiar envelope out of her desk drawer, and Sherlock nodded at her. When John excused himself to compose himself in the washroom, Sherlock said only, “I can’t stay… it would be not... good... for me to hear this again. Hopefully, John will understand.”

With that, he exited, and Ella felt the envelope in her hand suddenly begin to tick…

***** 

John stared at himself in the too-harsh washroom lighting, but all he felt was a sense of peace. Finally, he’d said everything he  _ needed _ to say, confessed all his truths, played his hand. Now it was time to see what the fallout would be.

Focussing on his breathing, trying not to be too embarrassed about his… performance… he walked most of the way into the room before he realised Sherlock was gone. Confused, he blinked at Ella, who smiled gently at him.

“Sit down, John. Do you need some water? How are you doing? That was quite a … moment you had there.”

“Yeah, no, I’m alright, mostly. Where’s Sherlock?”

“He couldn’t stay, but he left you this. Said this would answer some of your questions. No, I have no idea of the contents.”

He took the envelope, feeling the expensive heavyweight paper that Sherlock preferred for his personal stationery between his finger tips. Funny how such a small thing suddenly felt like it carried the weight of all his hopes and dreams…

Tearing it open revealed a folded letter and a microSD card. Taking out the letter, he unfolded it to see Sherlock’s familiar spiky scribble:

_ John, if you are reading this, you have finally faced down the demons that haunt you… the ones I am unfortunately responsible for. _

_ There are no apologies that could truly convey the regret I feel. I made so many mistakes - letting Moriarty get into my head, letting Mycroft make decisions I should have pushed back against. _

_ But most of all, you, John. I understand now how deeply and irrevocably I hurt you. I thought I was saving you, when, if I am honest, it was merely my pride I was protecting. _

_ Now you see me, failed hero, as I truly am, a man so smart it renders him stupid enough to walk away from the people who matter most to him. _

_ I’m putting it in writing. Feel free to frame it, I shan’t argue. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ I was wrong, John. I thought I knew what was best for you, I took away your choices, and I did  _ _ not _ _ have that right. Every decision I made without consulting you was wrong. If it's any consolation, I paid the price for my pride and hubris and then some. _

_ The card has recordings made while I was away. Your steady presence, your perspective, your terrible jumpers, and your dry humour - I missed it all so much, so I talked to you, when I could. When it was safe. _

_ You are under no obligation to listen, but it may answer some of your questions if you do. Start with the one with the most recent date. _

_ Always, only, and ever yours, Sherlock _

Scrubbing away a few stray tears, John read it twice more before tucking it back into the envelope. He wasn’t ready to share those words, not even with Ella, not yet.

Pulling the SD card out, he fished his phone out, faffed around getting it inserted and recognised by the phone, then finding the right file which was date-stamped fifteen months earlier. Setting it down on the arm of the chair, he turned the speaker volume up so Ella could hear it. Feeling his heartbeat pound with anticipation, he pressed play: 

_ … road noise… the groans and creaks of an old vehicle on a badly paved road, the faint background noise of a radio in a language John didn’t recognise…. _

_ … hacking coughs, deep chesty ones that told of an untreated chest infection, followed by hoarse breathing… _

_ … “Last stop, Serbia - one prisoner and two guards - and then, finally, John, finally that will be the end of Moriarty’s network…”  _ Sherlock’s voice was harsh, cracked and almost unidentifiable. __

_ … more coughing… “I need to tell you… I was wrong, John, so wrong. So many times I’ve needed you. I can hear you, telling me there are always other ways… you could have been here…” _

_...a heavy thud and rattle, and a pained groan… whispering… “John, I’m sorry. It’s time to face up to the fact that I probably won’t survive this… pretty sure I’ve got incipient pneumonia and Mycroft has no idea where I am…”  _

_...hacking, gasping coughs… “I have to go soon. Time for me to be captured and locked up, again. I wanted to say… I should have said it before… everything. You’re my best and only friend, John. I love you, and you needed to know that, but I didn’t want to hurt you even more…” _ __   
_   
_ __ “I miss you so much… forgive me, John, for everything…”

It cut off abruptly and then resumed with an entirely different familiar voice - the clipped tones of Mycroft.

_ “We have him, John. He’s been airlifted to a private facility in Berlin - pneumonia, of course. He enjoys being tortured far too much, in my opinion. Sherlock insisted that I leave a note for you. Wouldn’t settle until I did. Take care of him, John, for all our sakes.” _

Ella left him to sit in silence for a long time after that. He was grateful.


	4. Forgiveness Comes In Many Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes folks, we earn our E rating in this chapter! 
> 
> Everything comes to a head (yes pun intended!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *********************************************************************  
> I struggled a lot with this chapter, I personally find it hard to write emotional scenes like this from Sherlocks POV when all he wants to do is ANALYSE and THINK about thinks.
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this soft tender scene of our boys being particularly squidgy with each other :)
> 
> Yell at me in the comments!
> 
> *******************************************************************

It was late when John finally let himself into 221B Baker Street. Ella had given him space to decompress, and then he’d taken to the streets, walking until his head finally settled. Leaving his shoes at the foot of the stairs, he stood and listened. Sherlock normally gave away his emotional state with the violin, but only the now-familiar strains of recorded classical music could be heard.

Tired, hungry, and wrung out from the cascade of emotions and adrenaline fatigue, he was really hoping for some food, a hot shower, and a good night's sleep. Quietly, he let himself into the flat, hung his jacket behind the door, then stopped in surprise.

Sherlock was sitting in pyjamas and his blue dressing gown, cross-legged on the sofa, an open box of chocolates beside him. On the floor was a giant wicker basket, an assortment of food items scattered haphazardly across the floor. There was light from the fire and from the reading lamp above the sofa, the rest of the flat in as much darkness as a central London night offered.

Silently, he walked over to Sherlock, looking down at him as Sherlock leaned back against the sofa and tilted his head back, exposing the fine lines of his neck and collarbones. Only the movement of his throat as he swallowed gave any sense of what he was feeling.

Roughly, John said, “I don’t know whether I should kiss you or thump you.”

Uncrossing his legs, easing down into the curve of the sofa with an entirely unsubtle thrust of his hips, Sherlock reached out one hand in invitation, “I vote for the kissing, first.”

John allowed himself to be pulled forward and down, to straddle Sherlock's lap. “Softening me up, are you? I might still thump you later.”

“I might let you. And trust me, John, if there is any kind of softening going on when you kiss me, we’re both doing it wrong.”

Unaccountably, John began to giggle, so their first tentative kisses were mixed with laughter. Until John moaned, suddenly breathless and needy, wound his fingers in dark curls, rocked his hips forward until he heard Sherlock’s breath catch. He tilted his head, lips soft at first, then firmer as Sherlock matched him with need and intensity. Tasting dark chocolate and some sweet floral flavour from the chocolates he had been eating.

“Turkish Delight,” he muttered as he leaned back to catch his breath.

“Mmmm?”

“You taste of Turkish Delight – exotic, expensive, and extremely bad for you. Typical.” Sherlock snorted a soft puff of amusement.

A jaw-cracking yawn caught John by surprise, then a gurgle from his stomach, sounding absurdly loud. He slumped forward, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s collarbone. “What’s with the fancy hamper?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock shrugged underneath him. “No card, not a particularly auspicious date, but who else would spend several hundred pounds on a Harrods gift basket.”

“Is there any actual food in it?”

“If you let me up, I can fix you a plate. Then probably a shower, and then bed.” Sherlock kneaded his fingers into the tight muscles of John’s neck, “Just to sleep, John. Neither of us is in any shape for anything more… adventurous… right now.”

Reluctantly, John leaned sideways, falling into the soft leather embrace of the sofa, fighting the pull toward sleep as Sherlock slipped away. He reappeared with a plate full of fancy charcuterie, cheeses, crackers, grapes, crunchy pickled white pearl onions, and creamy paté.

After eating enough to satisfy the basic demands of his stomach, John staggered to the bathroom, dragging with tiredness, had a too-short shower, toweled himself roughly dry, and threw himself naked into Sherlock’s bed. He was snoring in soft snuffles, sprawled face down, when Sherlock turned out the lights, pulled the covers up, and slid into the other side.

*

John slept hard, waking up to the post-dawn city noises with a full bladder and a mouth that felt full of cotton wool. Slightly disoriented by the fact he wasn’t in his bedroom, he blearily found his way to the bathroom, took care of the first problem, rinsed his mouth with water followed by a quick scrub of a toothbrush, and stumbled back to bed again.

Some hours later, daylight on his eyelids woke him again, but he was reluctant to leave the blissful, half-hazy state he was in. He felt… good… warm… content, in his comfortable nest (he didn't remember his bed being this soft before), and he was quite happy to linger in that state for a while longer.

As he stretched and snuggled down into the mattress, he realised all of him was awake this morning. Slightly surprised to find himself naked (a habit he had abandoned when Sherlock took to hauling him out of bed at all hours – sometimes literally), he sighed with pleasure as his right hand cupped his balls before lightly stroking his cock. A soft, slow wank seemed just the way to start the day, and he groaned in low tones as he settled into a teasing rhythm.

He bit his lip against the moans he only partly muffled, letting his mind drift to his favourite fantasy, sighing out, “Oh God, Sherlock…”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock’s rich baritone answered, very close, clearly amused. His hand stuttered to a halt.

_Last evening!... God I was so exhausted… not a dream, then… Oh… his mouth under mine, the taste of dark chocolate… Christ, I’m in his bed… naked…_

_… Oh, Fuck…_

With a mental shrug, he let his hand resume its action, if a little lighter and more theatrical. Eyes still firmly closed, he asked, “Are you watching me have a wank?”

_The thrill of discovery made his pulse kick up a beat, a familiar sizzle of excitement… arousal… at being watched…_

The mattress flexed as Sherlock slid towards him. “Well, you are in my bed, and you haven’t invited me to … participate. Although I am quite enjoying the show.” The thread of laughter and sarcasm in Sherlock’s voice was so typically him – that gorgeous voice that _always_ did things to John…. This morning, he didn’t fight it.

“Mmmm... well, I’m right here. What's stopping you?” Rocking his hips, he pushed the top sheet down to reveal his abdomen, hip, and thigh on that side.

A chuckle, “I had no idea you were _such_ a tease….” Then more seriously, “Consent, John. Consent matters.”

John was well and truly putting on a performance now, and he smirked at hearing the deep, sensual grate of arousal in Sherlock’s voice. He suspected his morning lie-in was about to become vastly more enjoyable – for both of them.

Opening his eyes, heavy-lidded, he gazed up into the changeable eyes of the most important person in his world. John slowly licked his lips, saying softly but clearly, “I give you full and enthusiastic consent to touch me, kiss me, and do anything to me that might be vaguely construed as fucking, at any point. Enough?”

He reached out to caress Sherlock’s jaw, trailing his thumb lightly over those sinfully pouty lips that parted under his touch, and Sherlock replied, “Enough, and I grant you the same. But John...”

Pressing his thumb to those lips, John said, “Shhhh, darling, details later. Please don’t make me wait any longer. Kiss me, Sherlock…”

He slid his hand up into those wild, dark curls and rolled in as Sherlock leaned down and kissed him with a slow tenderness that left him lightheaded, dizzy, _and God, wanting **so** much more…_

*  
Mentally calculating the percentage chance he would realise he was neither alone, nor in his own bed, Sherlock watched with appreciation as John settled in to what looked like a thoroughly satisfying way to start the day.

_It seems almost a shame to disturb him, but I must at some point… for both our sakes…_

When John groaned out his name _and wasn’t that telling, given the circumstances…_ , it was the invitation he had been waiting for. And then John surprised him again, obviously caught off guard, yet choosing not to be embarrassed and instead committing to wherever this was going to take them. Which appeared to start with hands grasping at his pyjamas and a muttered, “Why do you have so many clothes on?”

Shifting his body to slide one pyjama-clad leg between naked thighs, moving slowly, watching every micro-expression on John’s face, Sherlock lowered himself down. Threading his fingers through the short hair at his nape, he whispered, “Mmmm, we have all day, if you want, John.”

“Oh, god, yes…,” John sighed as Sherlock dipped his head to kiss and nip his way along the line of John’s jaw, relishing the graze of stubble against his lips. Considering whether to venture lower, he felt a gently firm grip on his hair guiding him back to his lover’s waiting mouth.

“I asked you to kiss me,” John grumbled as he pulled Sherlock’s head down to kiss him again with a ruthless, practised intensity. Combined with the other hand, that was now kneading into his arse and grinding their cocks together, it was too much, and still not enough. He moaned, and felt John shudder in reply.

_He likes hearing me… knowing he’s responsible… or perhaps just enjoying… oh, god… he enjoys watching me come apart…_

Pulling back, panting, he reached up and pulled at his pyjama top, sliding it off to fall aside, pausing in surprise at John’s sudden inhalation of breath.

Fingertips stroked their way up his arms, over his shoulders and chest, tracing along scars with almost reverent slowness. John stared up at him with a raw hunger that ignited something deep inside, a flame that flickered and flared when John said roughly, “Sherlock… Christ you are gorgeous. Lie down for me, love.”

Shimmying out of his pyjama pants on the way, he did as requested, lay back and basked in the intensity of John’s appreciation. Being wanted with such obvious need was a… heady… feeling…. But it was the unrelenting tenderness in John’s touch that was lighting up Sherlock’s nerve endings.

_He looks at me like I am the center of his universe… doesn’t realise he is the light to my dark. Touches me like he’s afraid I might break… even now, vulnerable as he is, naked in the light of day… he still cares and protects…. How can he love the scarred and damaged creature I have become?_

Suddenly overwhelmed with too many emotions to process at once, he closed his eyes, turning his face away. But John noticed immediately and pressed a hand firmly on his chest, helping to ground him. He pressed up into the warmth of it.

“Is this too much?” John asked gently. “It’s okay, Sherlock, tell me what you need?”

“You look at me as if I were something precious, something beautiful. But I’m not. You shouldn’t do that.” Shivering as featherlight fingertips traced the scars that marked his chest, he breathed out, “I’m damaged goods, John.”

“We both are. It's why we fit so well, I think.” John sat up and rolled to straddle Sherlock’s hips with his knees, and spread those capable, sensitive hands over his ribs, gliding them up his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms and back again. Slowly, he leaned forward, ghosting hot breath over Sherlock’s skin before dipping in to press ardent kisses along the length of the longest scar.

Murmuring, “Gorgeous, beautiful, brilliant, fascinating, sexy, annoying, amazing, perfect, exquisite…,” he moved to the next scar, and the next, keeping up the litany of praise until Sherlock groaned and reached for him.

“John…”

They twined their bodies around each other, lips locked together, tongues dueling until they were sweatslick, grinding their aching cocks together with urgent demand. Panting, John arched his hips up towards Sherlock who was now plastered full-length on top of him.

“Fuck…, you… _dazzle_ me, Sherlock. Every day.”

Cupping his hands around those cheekbones, he brushed them softly with his thumbs, causing Sherlock to close his eyes against the ardour in his expression.

“I love you… _because_ of the scars, not despite them. You fought, and survived, and came back to me.” Smiling with infinite softness, he continued, “Kintsugi, Sherlock, finding beauty in what was broken…”

Sherlock felt something profound click in his brain as he registered what John meant – that even after all the mistakes he had made, his entirely too-human fallibility revealed, his imperfections did not render him less…. Instead, in John’s eyes, they made him… **more**.

_What have I done to deserve the love of this man? This amazing man who continues to forgive me… even when I’ve hurt him again and again?_

Humbled yet again by the tolerant kindness, the unexpected outright enthusiasm of his lover, Sherlock leaned down, sealing his lips to John’s. Using his body to demonstrate his passion, he worked his way down John's body with hot, open-mouthed kisses, grazing teeth over nipples _– so responsive… I’m making him sound like that … it’s my touch he is begging for ..._

Thumbs traced the creases of John’s thighs before trailing down in teasing caresses that Sherlock followed with his mouth, sucking bruises into the sensitive skin as John groaned and trembled beneath him.

“God… fuck, Sherlock… your mouth… ahhh… more… mmm…”

Concerned for the state of his sheets, watching John’s fists clench in straining handfuls, Sherlock finally glided his hand up over the rigid dusky length of John’s cock, smearing his palm with the precome in slow strokes. John stilled in anticipation with a throaty groan, hips twitching in primal need. Sherlock’s cock ached to fulfill it.

Watching carefully, he closed his fist around John’s girth, essaying a few strokes... _oh, he likes a firm grip. Very well, then…_ Shifting forward he looked up to see John gazing at him, stormcloud eyes dark and intense and _wanting_. Holding that gaze, he licked his lips and, very deliberately, licked a swirl around his cockhead.

Feeling John shudder under him, he smiled around his cock, sealing his lips around it and sinking as far down as he felt comfortable, working his fist over the base.

_And oh, John’s reaction!_ “Oh My Fucking God! Oh… Christ… Oh, God…” _What will it take to render him speechless … Will I get the chance to find out?_

Letting John set the rhythm – hard and fast – mouth and fist working in practised tandem, Sherlock felt a hand roughly push through his curls, cradling the back of his head with remarkable gentleness (given the circumstances). He leaned into the caress for a moment, eyes closing in appreciation of the contact, and hummed deep in his throat.

_We could have had this long ago, had I not been… me…. Sentiment – passion – is so messy. But to see John like this… losing himself in the pleasure that I am giving him… how could I have denied either of us this?_

John’s breath began to catch, hips stuttering, gasping and panting. Sherlock gave himself fully to enjoying the weight and texture of John’s cock on his tongue, watching how eagerly he strained forward, anticipating the exquisite pleasurepain of release.

_Nothing else matters, only John, breathless, demanding,_ “harder, oh god, oh… oh… fuck… I’m coming… oh, GOD…”

Easing him through his pulsing climax, Sherlock relished the saltsour taste on his tongue. Obeying the gentle tug on his curls and the rasped, “Holy fuck, Sherlock, come up here,” he crawled up the bed.

Eyes closed, breathing hard as he rode out the endorphin rush, John guided Sherlock to lie on his shoulder, stroking trembling fingers through tangled curls as his breathing eased back.

Nestling into the cuddle, Sherlock closed his eyes, humming in appreciation. _The delicious feel of those fingers in my hair… how I’ve wanted this…_

Cradled in John’s embrace, listening to his heartbeat, was oddly soothing. Such a primal thing, being skin-on-skin, he could fall asleep to the regular tha-thump of John’s life force, even in its currently unsurprisingly elevated rhythm. He was happy to lie there being petted, cuddling even. He breathed deeply, found that John smelled really good, and he hummed again in satisfaction.

_Mycroft is wrong, there is value to be had in caring for someone, especially when they care for you._

“Are you… purring? My god, I’ve never heard you be so quiet before.”

Sherlock smiled at how utterly wrecked John sounded. “Well… my mouth _has_ been otherwise occupied.” He let himself sound justifiably smug.

“God, has it… I’ll have to return the favour. Just not… now, need to catch my breath.” John sounded hesitant.

Sherlock tilted his head up to look at John’s face, “It’s okay, you don’t have to. Whatever you’re comfortable with is fine.”

John rumbled a laugh and leaned down to kiss him, screwing his face up at the taste. “Umm, sorry about that. But the problem isn’t that I don’t want to, it's that my legs currently don’t work. And possibly most of my spine.”

“Oh,” Sherlock smirked, “well in that case, you can go first next time.”

“Bossy…. But I do have some good news. Shift over a bit.”

“Mmmm?” from Sherlock, as he obliged.

“Got any lube?” John asked, as he slid down the bed a bit.

Arching an eloquent eyebrow at John for a moment, Sherlock made a long arm and slid open the top bedside drawer, pulled out a clear bottle that he squirted into John’s waiting palm.

“The good news is… my hands do still work….” He slicked his fingers and reached out to gently caress Sherlock’s aching cock, “and my mouth….”

Teasing, nipping kisses. Slow, deep, hungry kisses. His mouth hot and needy, giving, taking, that unsubtle thrust of tongue _... a master of his craft, indeed… Being the focus of John’s attention is… intense._

His hand, unpractised but not unskilled, _not as used to handling another man,_ but “… oh… oh, yes… harder… yes, like that, oh god… don’t… don’t stop…”

_Dimly aware of John murmuring,_ “Fuck, you are gorgeous… is that how you like it? Harder… oh… that’s it, darling, fuck my fist… let me see you come… let me hear you… I bet you look like a fallen angel… god, so fucking beautiful…”

When lips closed over one nipple, tongue flicking and sucking, he couldn’t stop the filthy, wanting moans. When fingers pinched the other one, he shuddered with a gasping whimper.

“Sensitive are we?” John crooned softly. “Harder? Yes? Fuck, the things I want to do to you...”

_Oh, God, yes… and I want you to do them…_

It was the possessive growl in John’s voice that tipped him over the brink, as clever fingers and mouth skirted the edge of pain. Drowning in pleasure, nerves alight with the driving need for release, wordlessly crying out, he came with hard, pulsing thrusts. Trusting John to keep him safe, he floated on the massive endorphin rush, the glow, the fade, the relaxation… until sticky reality made itself known.

“That was beautiful. Thought you had passed out for a moment.” Wallowing in the afterglow, Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes to see John grinning at him and saying, “Back in a sec.”

He returned with a damp flannel and a glass of water, gently cleaned Sherlock up, and they shared the glass. Slumping back into bed, John twined their fingers together, and they lay for a long moment.

Finally John said, in slightly confused tones, “You’ve done this before, haven't you.”

“Sex? Yes, but not for a while, and… not like this.” Choosing his words carefully, Sherlock paused, he could feel John waiting for clarification. “My body still has… needs. I found a way to take care of them that removed any emotional involvement.” He shrugged, “Toys are convenient, but not always sufficient.”

John choked out a laugh, “Oh, dear god, I hope I was ‘sufficient’ then.”

Lifting their joined hands, Sherlock kissed the back of John’s. “Never doubt it…. You… this… us… it _matters_. I do love you, John. I’m truly sorry that I’m not easily able to tell you that.”

“I know, love. Your family has a lot to answer for. I’m working on forgiving you too, but… if you leave me behind like that again, I _will_ kill you myself.” Sherlock heard the smile in his voice, so only took it half seriously.

“If I am stupid enough to do that, I will have deserved it. Now, what are you going to make me for breakfast?”

“Cheeky bastard. How does pickled eyeballs on toast sound, as I bet you haven’t done any shopping.” John poked him in the ribs.

“Clearly you’ve already forgotten Mycroft’s hamper. There is champagne available – the good stuff, too.”

John lay back and gestured expansively. “Yes, breakfast in bed sounds perfect. Off you go, then.” He grinned cheerfully at Sherlock and flapped his hands, “I’ll wait.”

Bemused at being so easily outmaneuvered, Sherlock rolled out of bed with a smirk, and strode imperiously toward the kitchen, ignoring the wolf whistle that John sent after him.

*

_The taste of Turkish Delight would always remind John of that day – squabbling over crumbs in the bed, feeding each other morsels, trading kisses and sips of champagne. The feeling of overwhelming joy as they loved each other with breathless abandon, cherishing each touch and kiss, and the simple delight of being together. At last._

*

With enough food in the flat to tide them over for a couple of days, they spent time discovering each other in this new and entirely diverting way. Despite Sherlock’s initial reserve, conversations were had about boundaries, fantasies, likes, dislikes. They were still a little tentative with each other, both aware that adding a physical dimension to their relationship was going to fundamentally change a lot of things for them.

Lounging on the sofa, they were watching an action movie dubbed ‘mindless drivel’ by Sherlock, who lay with his head in John’s lap providing a constant stream of snark in between bites of food. John had given up on the movie and, instead, sat (with a no-doubt soppy expression on his face) stroking his fingers through some impressive bedhead.

It had been a fucking fantastic few days (literally), but the real world was about to intrude, and John was a little hesitant about making their change in status public. Given that everyone had thought they were an item for years, it seemed a pointless worry. Still, it niggled at him.

_I don’t want to share this, not yet. It's too new ... too precious to let other people in…. Have to tell Ella. Thank God we aren’t working with the Yard right now!_

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Sherlock mumbled around a mouthful of Brie.

“Just thinking that we will have to tell Ella … about us,” John smiled as he twisted out the curls under his fingers, and Sherlock tilted his head up to meet his eyes.

“If she’s any kind of therapist, she should be able to tell,” he sighed with a pout. “But I take your point. It does potentially change things for us.”

“What should I call you - boyfriend, lover, partner, significant other? I guess we should sort that out.”

“I vote for FuckToy, personally, but I’m aware it contravenes several pointless social niceties.”

Only Sherlock could sound _quite_ so miffed, and John snickered at the mental imagery. Sherlock could haughtily brazen it out, but John would be reduced to helpless giggles.

“Let's save that for special occasions, hmm?” Making a mental note to get it printed on a t-shirt for Christmas, he said softly, “I’d be honoured to be your boyfriend, if you can lower yourself to use the phrase.”

With a theatrical sigh, Sherlock settled down into his lap again. “If we must, not that it’s anyone else’s business.”

“I know, love, I know. The Great Unwashed and all that. Speaking of which, dishes or laundry?”

When Sherlock shook his head, burrowing further into John’s lap, John gave a gentle tug to the messy curls “We agreed, I tell you what needs to be done, and you choose. Fair division of labour, I believe you termed it.”

Sherlock rolled gracelessly onto the floor, shuffling forward until he was between John’s spread legs. Leaning in for a kiss, he murmured “Toss you for it?”

“You’ll have to find my wallet. God knows where it is. Mmmm, you taste like the good cheese.”

“Idiot, not _that_ kind of toss.” Sherlock’s lips trailed down his neck in a very distracting manner, and it took John’s neurons a moment to catch up.

“What? First one to come wins?” He slid the dressing gown down to the floor and tugged Sherlock’s pyjama top off, smoothing his hands over the planes of his chest.

“If you’re trying to distract me with sex, I should point out that the housework will still be there waiting, afterwards.” His attempt to sound irked failed dismally as he lay back into the sofa and pulled Sherlock down with him.

Sherlock gave him his adorable, one-sided smile, “I’m bored. And you, John Watson are _not at all_ boring when you are naked.”

“Oh, come here and kiss me, you gorgeous thing.”

Wholly engrossed in each other, they never heard the familiar footsteps of Mrs. Hudson on the landing, nor the sitting room door opening. As she clapped hands over her eyes, crying out, “Oh good grief!! Oh dear!, I’ll come back later. Oh goodness me!”

John, his throat having dried up and closed over in horror, was unable to do anything other than croak, “Oh fuck!” as the door slammed shut. Sherlock shouted at the clatter of feet down the stairs, “You might want to knock, next time!”

John stared at Sherlock in dismay, wondering what to say. Looking at John’s now-uninterested cock, Sherlock sighed, “No public sex for you, obviously. Shame.”

“Oh god, Mrs. Hudson just saw you sucking me off. Christ!” The adrenaline rush had his brain in overdrive, and John allowed himself a moment or three of panic.

Sherlock shrugged dismissively, “Bound to happen at some point. Could have been worse.”

Imagining all the ways in which it could have been _very much worse_ , John giggled nervously. Then his brain caught up with him. “Public sex? Are you insane?”

Sherlock gave him his best manic genius grin, “I’ve been tested, several times actually. So I can answer 100% honestly with a No.” He ignored John’s snort of amusement, hoisted his pyjama pants up, stood and waited while John tucked himself back into his clothes.

Offering John a hand up, he said, “Dishes, then a shower, and then we should probably apologise to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Or we could change the locks,” John said grumpily as he stood.

“She’s our landlady, it's her house. But yes, it might be wise to ensure our privacy in the future. A little less of an open door policy might be nice.”

Sherlock retrieved his clothing from the floor and sauntered into the kitchen, saying lightly, “I’m sure she has learned her lesson.” It was beginning to get on John’s nerves, just how unbothered Sherlock was about this. Then he remembered something he had read **\- You can’t always control the outcome of a situation, but you can control how you react to it.**

Sherlock’s sublime indifference to what he termed ‘vapid social power plays and the like’ rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but it also removed him from the excruciating social embarrassment that John felt smothering him. _Perhaps Sherlock has a point… she should have knocked, and what two adult men do in their sitting room… is their business._

John sighed, “She’s going to tell _everyone_ , you realise.” But Sherlock, yet again, managed to surprise him as he reached up into the cupboard above the fridge that held his collection of scientific glassware and the like.

Saying indistinctly, “Not if we ask nicely, and just happen to leave a bottle of that bourbon she is so fond of behind.” Standing on tiptoe, carefully reaching over the beakers and test tubes, he pulled out a bottle of Makers Mark 46 with a flourish. “My secret emergency stash.”

“Need to be forgiven often, do you?” John asked with a laugh. “Why do I never get expensive alcoholic apologies? And what else have you got up there?”

Pulling on his pyjama top and dressing gown, rolling up the sleeves, Sherlock said tartly, “Has there ever _not_ been whisky in the flat when you wanted some?”

Feeling a blush heat his cheeks, John pulled his shirt on and went to help with the dishes, saying quietly, “Thanks, I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Elbowing him gently, Sherlock said, “It’s _our_ whisky after all. A machete, spare ammunition for your Sig, a selection of poisons and antidotes, my spare lock picking set, some throwing knives, several fake passports, and cash in enough currencies to ensure a safe getaway. Plus a nice bottle of cognac, a _very_ nice bottle of armagnac, port, and extra bourbon.”

John blinked, swallowed and said, “No bomb-making supplies then?”

Rinsing the dishes, Sherlock smirked over his shoulder, “No need, can find them in any hardware shop. Or buy online. Besides, both Mycroft and Lestrade get a bit twitchy about it, so I store all that in one of my safe houses.”

“Oh, good. Pleased to hear that. Safe houses?” Deadpan as he could make it, John reached for a tea towel and a plate to dry.

“Mmmm.” Obviously, that was all he was going to get. John mused, “That's quite a lot of emergency stash supplies, especially seeing as I had no idea any of it was there.”

“Well…,” smirking with serene satisfaction, Sherlock replied, “It _is_ the first time I’ve been caught having sex,” He shrugged, “Mrs Hudson will be fine. It’s not the first time she’s seen me naked, after all.”

Nearly dropping the plate he was drying in surprise, John gawked at him for a moment before saying quietly to himself, “Yes, you signed up for this, you idiot.”

*

Proving Sherlock annoyingly right, Mrs Hudson was indeed quite fine, fussing and clucking with delight, thrilled with confirmation of their ‘thing’ as she put it. Charmed by the bourbon, she insisted on pouring a celebratory shot for everyone, which turned into several more, ordering in takeaways, and ensuring hangovers all-round the next day.

Promising to keep their secret, she pointedly began calling out, “Cooee!” on her way up the stairs, knocking loudly and waiting for a response, before coming in on any future visits.

John fitted chain locks on the doors, but most of the time they completely forgot to use them.


	5. On the Slaying of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continues to deal with the fall out of his past, Sherlock indulges in some navel gazing and both men begin to consider what the future might look like for them.
> 
> CW and Trigger Warning - Slight references to childhood parent violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***********************************************************************  
> One of the things that particularly bothers me about when two damaged people get together, is how, so often, they magically seem to fix each other.
> 
> What happens after the first kiss, the first night together. How do you lay down a foundation for a future, navigating each others issues. How do you recognise what you bring to a relationship, so that you know what ELSE you need to provide?
> 
> Its a lot of hard work, compromise, patience and forgiveness. Not just for yourself but for others as well.
> 
> ********************************************************************

John felt his back stiffen further as he faced towards the windows, fists working open and closed. An uncomfortable silence filled Ella’s office, lingered for a moment before she said  softly, “John, we need to talk about this.”

Grating out, “I’m not like him. I’m not…”

_ I’m not the man who hits innocent women and children, who screams at them in a drunken rage. Who makes senseless demands that can never be satisfied as an excuse to lash out. Not the man who lets his anger rule his actions … yet I’m so afraid that I could  _ become _ him. If I let go … if I let myself be as angry as I feel…. It terrifies me that I could seriously hurt Sherlock … There’s this dark, furious part of me that wants to… hurt him as much as he hurt me. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ God… what's wrong with me? _

“Not someone who bottles up their anger until they can’t hold it any more, and then lashes out?” Sherlock spoke softly, and John flinched at the words but stayed resolutely turned away.    
  
He continued, merciless with his gentle insight, “No, you are not your father. Instead, you carry your pain, or take it to war.” 

*

Sherlock rose, flicked a querying look at Ella, who nodded. He stepped over to stand behind John, close but not crowding him.

“I deserve your anger, John. I give you permission to be angry, even to hate me a little. Your anger is honest, raw, primal. You are  _ allowed _ to be angry. You  _ should _ be. I hurt you, and I left you behind.” Doing his best to express his genuine remorse, Sherlock glanced at Ella again, receiving another nod. “Would it help if I let you hit me? It only seems fair. I wouldn’t mind.”

John whirled around with a haunted, horrified look on his face. Shocked pale, he hissed, “Punishing people for their mistakes doesn’t teach them anything. Except how to be afraid of you.”

_ Oh, so much pain, so much history…. My heart aches for the child who learned that lesson at the hands of his father. _

“John, why do you keep punishing yourself… for  _ my _ mistakes?” Sherlock ached to hold him, to do anything that might take away the tension that had John wound far too tight. Instead, he spoke as softly, as carefully as he could.

“I love you, John. You are justified in being angry with me, and I will not even need to forgive you, because I truly deserve it. But… why can’t you forgive yourself?”

Biting his lip against the welling tears, John looked away, and the room waited for his reply.

In a voice thick with unshed tears, he said, “I promised myself that I would never be like him. But I have his temper and it scares me. Oh God, Sherlock, I never  _ ever _ want to become him.” Judging it safe to approach, Sherlock opened his hands in invitation, John nodded and Sherlock stepped forward, wrapping his long arms around stiff shoulders, holding him close. Stroking the back of his neck as John finally leaned into his chest, softly and oh-so-brokenly crying into his shirt.

“John, you are a soldier and a healer. You fight the bad guys and heal the good guys, and you know the difference. No one else keeps me right the way you do, your moral compass gives me my true north.” Pressing his cheek to John’s temple, Sherlock said quietly into his ear, “The nightmares … all that grief, shame, and anger. It disturbs me to see you suffering like this. I… I can’t fix it, John, but please, please let me help?”

They stood wrapped around each other for several minutes while John composed himself. When he eventually pulled back, searching for a tissue and taking the fine linen handkerchief Sherlock handed him with a wobbly smile, Ella said, “I think we will call it a day. John, the TimeOut room is free if you need it.” 

*

Ella watched John make his way to the bathroom, then turned to Sherlock, “A moment, if you will.”

He settled into his chair with a shrug, “I was going to give him some space. I’m learning when he needs it.”

“I can see that. But you... hover a bit when John is upset, and sometimes that can be too much for him to process.” She fussed with her notes, knowing he knew it was an excuse to give him time to think and process. 

_ He is fascinating to watch, mimicking human behaviour when he doesn’t always understand the reason for it. Helping him begin to understand via the medium of John’s trauma isn’t easy for either of them, but he really does love him. Context seems to help. He needs the data to map it into that computer of a brain he has. He can’t always make the pieces fit, but he has more of them than he used to. He’s come a long way. I wonder if he realises how far? _

“He puts the needs of others ahead of himself, even when he shouldn’t. So he can’t take care of himself unless I leave him alone?” Mostly, Sherlock sounded faintly annoyed at the possibility, but she could see how hard he was trying to understand, so was gentle.

“Yes. When he comes back, you can hover. Eventually, it will annoy him enough that he will tell you or he will leave. It's a powerful thing, the chemical and endorphin release, when in a highly charged situation. People need room to stabilise. John will always try to manage  _ your _ emotional state ahead of his, so if you are stressed, he will be too.”  _ Ahhh, there is that rapid blinking thing he does when he stores away a data point. Good. This one is important. _

Sherlock answered slowly, verbalising his thought process. “That’s why he walks. He is removing himself from stressors and triggers, making sure he is safe to be around?”  _ And there is the finger-tapping, when he is a little uncertain, I think? Trying to understand, trying to… relate… perhaps? _

“Yes, it's likely instinctive. Plus, the physical movement helps work the chemical load out of his system. In some ways, he is very self-aware.”  _ At least I hope it's that, and not him doing his best to avoid punching someone who might deserve it. Be grateful for small mercies, Ella! _

He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip for a while, clearly thinking. She had learned to give him time to work new concepts through using his own methods, but their session time was nearly up.

“You did very well today, Sherlock. I know we talked about this, but you’ve surprised me.”

He flicked an assessing glance at her, uncomfortable with not always understanding the subtext. “I was uncertain, when you and John revealed the change in your relationship status, but I can see how much he means to you. How hard you are trying. It may not be obvious to you, but I promise, your presence here… it really is helping.”

Aware of the time, he stood and slid his coat on, twitching both corners of his mouth in the tiniest of smiles that she had learned to recognise.  _ He’s genuinely uncertain and still thinking about it. _

“I suggest some of your pasta for dinner tonight – lots of carbs and creamy sauce. Good comfort food. That will help settle John.” 

With a put-upon sigh, he gave her a more genuine smile in thanks for the advice. While he constantly complained about regular cooking duties, the delight on John’s face when sharing the food-porn shots on his phone was all the thanks he seemed to need. Ella encouraged John to share the photos and regale her with how good the food was. Hearing John say positive things about Sherlock, especially in his presence, was an  _ interesting _ experience. 

She didn’t think either of them had noticed the impact it had, but hoped that John would, at some point. It would give him a bit more leverage in their rather unbalanced relationship. They were codependent in ways she wasn’t truly qualified to understand, but what they had did work. Her job was to make sure they communicated well enough to ensure it kept working.

*   
  
Sherlock knocked on the TimeOut room door and the light flashed green to indicate he could go in. John sat on the slightly battered sofa that helped give the room a less clinical feel, elbows on thighs, head hanging. It looked less like defeat and more like being utterly done with the world, and to see his vibrant John reduced to feeling like this made something clench in Sherlock’s chest.

_ Is this part of what love is – that you hurt when they hurt? And John loves so very intensely… oh… _

He sat close, just touching shoulders, and waited until John heaved a sigh and leaned into him. “I’m okay.” Sherlock said nothing, very loudly, and John sighed again, “Alright, I’m not okay, but I will be. Better?”

“Lets see how you feel after a hot bath, some carbonara and garlic bread, and that terrible baking show you love so much,” Sherlock pressed a kiss into John’s hair. 

John laughed softly before standing up and looking down at his lover, “Careful, I could get very used to being looked after by you.” 

John’s tone was teasing, but his eyes were tired, so Sherlock said only, “I hope you do get used to it. Because I’m not stopping.”

“Come on, love, take me home.” 

*************************************   
  
His next session with Ella was a solo one, and they sat for a moment, eyeing each other up, until John reluctantly slouched into his chair. 

“I really don’t want to talk about it, you know that,” he said wearily.

“I know, but surely you can understand now, how large a shadow your father cast over your childhood. It left some very deep and damaging scars. But, much as it pains me to say it, Sherlock is right. You are a healer, and your moral code is unwavering. You would never hurt people unless you genuinely thought they deserved it. Or someone's life was in danger.”

Bitterly, John said. “Bet my arsehole of a father thought we deserved it too.”

Ella shook her head, “Drunk and angry, a victim and a product of toxic masculinity and no obvious way to channel it. Could he have gotten help, if he had asked for it?”

Looking thoughtful, John nodded slowly, “Yes, of course. AA was always an option, but that would mean admitting he had a problem… oh ….” He looked at Ella with fresh respect, “You’ve been taking notes from Sherlock.”

Unexpectedly, she blushed, “Well, his methods are unconventional. But sometimes it's asking the right question at the right moment that provides the answer you didn’t know you were looking for.”

He grinned at her, “He says something just like that, but with more flailing of hands and unhelpful silences.”

Easing back into the chair, he frowned a little. “This is difficult for me, talking about… family stuff. Just… don’t push too hard, alright?”  _ I’m trying, I really am. I know I need this… but, oh god, I tried so hard to forget those nights … the screaming, the blood, the neighbours who knew but never helped … I was only a child! _

“So long as you are not avoiding the subject, and are being honest with me, I can respect that. Fair?”

“Fair. Where do we start?” 

_ Maybe she is right, it’s an abscess that needs to be drained so I can recover. It's going to be messy and unpleasant, but what surgery isn’t? Debride the wound, Dr. Watson. Sometimes that is your only option. _

“At the beginning, of course.”

_ Alright, Watson, embrace the suck. _

*

John had asked for a few solo sessions while he and Ella worked through his past family trauma. Sherlock was a little frustrated to be left out of the loop, but understood that his presence wasn’t always necessary, could even be a detriment. Reminding himself that this was about John’s recovery and health, he did his best to be patient.

Some days John came home limp and exhausted, barely eating before falling into bed. Other days he was sharp and prickly, and Sherlock learned to not hover until John came silently to him with a hug and an apology. More recently, he came home contemplative and thoughtful, asking odd behavioural questions and frowning a lot.

He seemed steadier, and the nightmares were far less frequent. Watching John getting his feet under himself again was fascinating. Knowing that he had something positive to do with it felt… peculiar, to say the least. 

It was exhausting, some days, being consciously aware of John’s mental state, having to adjust for it. Some days both of them were tired and snappish, when they ran out of milk or bread or something, and John stomped off to the shops. Those days were particularly hard.

Ella had given him some reading references on emotional labour. Sherlock had read them and felt what he could only describe as shame, understanding his own behaviour and the toll it had taken on John. Not just the big stuff, but the everyday stuff. The value of doing his share of the housework, cooking something nice when his partner had a bad day, remembering to pay the bills – all the daily minutiae that he had overlooked as unnecessary, leaving John to take care of it for him.   
  
John had enabled Sherlock, who had taken him utterly for granted, rarely even acknowledging his efforts, let alone thanking him. Treating him like… staff. 

Sherlock had the dawning realisation that he couldn’t be the Great Detective, not the way he had been. It wasn’t healthy for either of them, and now that he was aware of it, his concern for John’s welfare was more important than even the Work.

_ Am I going to have a bit of an identity crisis about this? Mycroft would laugh himself silly at the sickening sentiment of it all, should he ever express anything other than mild disdain.  _

_ But I know what he doesn’t. I know what it means to be truly and honestly loved.  _

_ It would do both of us good to slow down a bit. Crime will never end, and when every problem is a nail… I can’t be the only hammer available to fix it. _

_ And there I go, making the same mistake again. It's not ‘ _ **_I’_ ** _ , it’s not been ‘I’ for a long time.  _ **_We_ ** _ can’t be the only hammer to fix it. We need to talk about what John wants.  _

_ We need to plan  _ **_our_ ** _ future, together. _

***

_ I could get used to a regular night's sleep… _

Still muzzy and barely half awake, John stretched and wriggled a bit to roll over. Conditioned by years of sleeping in narrow army cots and hospital on-call rooms, he slept neatly. Which was just as well because, even in Sherlock’s king-size bed (to cater to his height), he often found himself having to shove his heat-seeking partner back to his side of the bed.

This morning, Sherlock was not welded to him. Instead, he lay with his face half bunched into a pillow, even his bed-head hair looking glamorously tousled. Sleep made him look younger, relaxed that vibrating energy, took the edge of his  _ Sherlockness.  _   
  
He was up and about early so often, it was rare that John got to catch him asleep, vulnerable, charming and blessedly  _ quiet _ , of all things. He took mental images, filing them away, slowly plastering over the cracks in his heart with good memories. It was his own private therapy technique. He had no idea whether it worked, but it made him feel better. Some days, that was the best he could hope for.

But this morning, lying there watching the man he loved sleep tranquilly in his presence, John felt… peaceful. Life had finally slowed down enough to let him catch up, get his breath, find his feet, have some solid ground underneath him.   
  
Slaying his dragons in therapy was an experience. Vomiting up all the foul muck of his childhood was cathartically horrendous. He hated revisiting those memories – all that terror and despair he had locked away – but with Ella’s careful guidance and an adult perspective, it was helping. While most of his soul felt like it had been scoured with sand, he couldn’t deny that the release of all his toxic experiences was … cleansing.

These stolen private moments were gifts that he treasured. Cuddles on the sofa, watching TV, the expression on Sherlock’s face that was  _ only _ for him, making dinner together, bickering over chores, and waking up to the warmth of Sherlock in bed next to him.

_ I never knew I wanted this. That I could have this… with him, of all people. Or that he, too, might want a domestic partnership. He’s trying so hard. Of course he’s an utter pillock most of the time, but I know he watches me when he thinks I don’t notice. The way he looks at me… I don’t have the right word for it… ‘tender’ or maybe ‘fond’, but it feels like more than that. _

_ Like he needs me, in ways neither of us quite understand yet. _

_ God, I’m looking forward to finding out, though… _

_ I want to touch him, tidy that bloody mop of his. He likes being petted, but would never admit to it, contrary bastard. I want to snuggle into his chest, feel the vibrations when he talks, all sleep-rough and so fucking sexy… and he knows it. Arse. I don’t want to wake him, though. He still doesn’t sleep enough. _

_ Christ, I love him so much.  _

_ Please, if there are any gods out there listening… Please, please let us have this. _

_ Don’t take him away from me again. _

With a tiny shiver, Sherlock transitioned from sleep to wakefulness, giving no obvious sign to anyone who didn’t know him as well as John did. While he was still relaxed, he was present, still working up to that vivid dynamic drive that fueled his brain.

“Morning gorgeous,” John murmured softly as he got up, ”Just getting up for a bit, want anything?”

Sherlock replied with his usual gravelly morning rasp, “You.”

Slipping into a truly dreadful tartan dressing gown he had bought specifically to offend Sherlock, John smiled.

That could mean anything from cuddles while they chatted about the day, to soft snogging sessions, to other deliciousness that left them both sweaty and sated. Who would have thought Sherlock could be so physically affectionate in the mornings. John didn't care either way. He delighted in it.

It was ALL fine.


	6. Don't Fuck with John, cos he Fucks Back HARDER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft are united in their desire to care for Sherlock, but they have very different ways of going about it. Mycroft oversteps and John surprises everyone....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****************************************  
> First of all, massive thanks to @Hatknitter who helped me brainstorm this into a chapter that made sense when my brain was too tired to think. Without your questions and insights this would have been not even half as good!
> 
> I have deep personal issues with overly controlling family members so Mycroft really aggravates me, so I decided it was time to do something about it. I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Happy to engage in discussion should you disagree with my take on this. Yell at me in the comments :)
> 
> **************************************************

Elbowing his way into the kitchen, both hands carrying shopping bags, newspaper tucked under one arm, John twitched upon hearing the clipped, disdainful tones of Mycroft’s voice issuing from Sherlock’s phone. The reason it was on speaker was so Sherlock could pace and gesture away his frustration at his brother, which usually amused John, but he didn’t like the way Mycroft spoke to him.

Today appeared to be another not good day, Sherlock clenching both fists as his brother said, with condescension so thick you could plaster walls with it, “No, brother mine, it's you who doesn’t understand…”

Abruptly, Sherlock interrupted, “John! Say hello to my brother, will you?” Mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ silently, he took the groceries and began to unpack them.

“Ahhh, Dr. Watson, Sherlock and I were just discussing the perils of keeping secrets from family members. Would you care to share your wisdom, perhaps?”  _ God, he is such a smug git, with a face just asking for a nice right hook. _

Heaving a frustrated sigh, John said curtly, “Everyone has secrets, even if you have a personal grudge against the concept Mycroft. Which is ironic, given what you do.”

There was a short silence, then Mycroft said smoothly, “Quite, dear fellow, quite. Given all the  _ unpleasantness _ in your family history, I can see how you would sympathise. Sherlock, Mummy said to say hello. Apparently you haven’t called in a while?”

Picking up the phone with scowl, Sherlock replied, “A state that's likely to continue. Go away, Mycroft.” Ending the call with a stab of one finger, he put it down and rested his hands on the table, head hanging.

John ran a hand up over his tense back before leaning in for a hug, holding lightly until Sherlock heaved a sigh and began to relax. “Did he want something, or was it just time for another ‘I’m so disappointed in you, little brother’ pep talk?”

Sherlock snorted, “Meddling, as usual, in things that are none of his business. Did you get everything I needed for dinner?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to pay three times as much for that fancy Danish bacon you wanted, so better get started on your bitch session now.” 

Looking mildly offended, Sherlock said, “I don’t ‘bitch,’ as you put it. I merely point out the logical reasons why one type of bacon is preferable to the other.”

“With enough snark to power the whole city for a month. It’s bacon. What the hell difference does it make?” John rolled his eyes at his drama queen.

Sherlock smirked wickedly, “How  _ nice  _ of you to ask John. Please, let me explain…”

Banging his head on the fridge door, John muttered to himself, “You idiot, you let yourself walk right into that one.”

_ It took Sherlock 67 minutes to wind down on the Bacon Soliloquy – John timed it. _

***********

Lying in bed, John’s brain niggled at him, not letting him relax enough to fall asleep. It was something Mycroft had said…

_ “Given all the unpleasantness in your family history.” _

Harry was still an alcoholic, so that wasn’t historical. Yes, there were no doubt records of the DV calls, but they never got taken seriously, as far as he knew. Probably got filed and forgotten, given that it was back in the days before everything was computerised. Of course, Mycroft had the resources to uncover anything, but why would he bother?

“John, what's wrong?” Sherlock’s voice startled him in the quiet of their bedroom.

“Oh, just thinking about how much of a prick your brother is.” Aiming for unconcerned but suspecting he missed, he carried on, “Have you talked to him about my therapy sessions?”

“He had to sign off on Ella’s security clearance, so he knows that much. But the details of what we talk about? Of course not, that's deeply personal and confidential. And none of his bloody business.” Snaking an arm under John’s pillow, Sherlock pulled him in for a snuggle.

“He really hates not knowing things, doesn’t he?” John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, hand pressed to his sternum, feeling his heartbeat.

“Well, with access to every CCTV camera and computer network, he sees all and knows all. Eventually.”

“Mmm, or he sends you ‘round.” John smiled at the outraged scoff from his lover.

“I am not his… lackey, or whatever you are implying.”

“Does he pay you for your services?”

“... Sometimes.”

“Right, so that’s the first thing we need to fix. I bet he guilt-trips you with all that little-brother gaslighting.”

“Gaslighting?”

“I’ll explain in the morning.”

*

Try as he might, he couldn’t forget what Mycroft had said, and he was pretty sure it was a deliberate word choice. It felt vaguely threatening, and it annoyed him. The threat was laughable, but the reason behind it… John couldn’t quite figure it out.

So his subconscious fretted at him when he wasn’t expecting it, until one night they were watching a spy action movie and his brain went offline for a moment as he put the pieces together.

Mycroft had cameras in Ella’s office. That was the  **only** possible answer. Which also explained the arrival of the mystery hamper the day they finally confessed the truth of what they were to each other.

_ What a total bastard! Breaching my privacy, and Sherlock’s, no doubt with some fucked-up excuse about looking after his fragile little brother. _

_ Sadly, I can’t kill him, but I can use this. I need evidence – hard, undeniable evidence – and then I will destroy him in front of Sherlock. He doesn’t deserve Sherlock’s trust, and I need to prove that.  _

As ice-hot rage settled into his veins, John felt himself shift mentally into battle-ready mode – focused, with a specific goal and a target. Mycroft fought his wars at a distance, secure behind a desk in the bowels of a government building. 

He would not be  _ at all _ prepared for Captain John Watson to bring the war to him directly.

*****   
  
As John clattered off down the stairs, Sherlock frowned after him. John had been acting oddly for the last couple of days. He was clearly preoccupied with something. He’d been distant but not unaffectionate, just had his attention elsewhere.

Annoyingly, it appeared he had accidentally taken Sherlock’s laptop with him, and given that he had a session with Ella later, it wasn’t going to be returned any time soon. He sighed and picked up John’s, spent 10 minutes cracking his new passcode before opening up a browser to log into his email.

Idly curious, he looked at the recent browser history, which was several searches on medical ethics. Not unusual for a doctor to be researching, but John wasn’t actively working and they didn’t have a case. Dismissing it as irrelevant, he carried on with his day.

******   
  
**You took my laptop by accident. I’m using yours. SH**

Reading the message with a sigh of relief, John texted back

_ Oops sorry! Is the password the same? _

**I haven’t changed it since last week. SH**

_ Okay tx sorry! Thai or indian for tea? _

**Thai. SH**

It appeared he had got away with his subterfuge. Unfortunately, he needed Sherlock’s laptop as it was set up with the secure encrypted MI6 system. If he was going to scan Ella’s office for hidden cameras, he needed to make sure their network didn’t detect the sweep.

John had learned a few things in his time with Sherlock, and he paid attention to the computer stuff. It was interesting and occasionally useful, especially being aware of the level of monitoring in the community. Sometimes it gave them a leg up when working a case.

One particular case several months ago had involved a diplomatic aide who was suspected of passing secrets to some very dangerous parties. John had gone undercover, ostensibly a harried low-level minion in the machine who kept bumping into the rather attractive aide over coffee. His job had been to distract her with flirting, lunches, keeping it light but friendly, until he got invited to dinner and back to her place.

Armed with a cellphone that had enough technology to wage its own nuclear war, John had managed to find enough evidence to arrest the aide. Unfortunately, Mycroft had sent his team in while John was still there and, in the ensuing furore, he’d misplaced the phone.

Well, that's what he had confessed to an annoyed Mycroft, anyway. Even Sherlock didn’t seem to twig to the fact that he’d wrapped it in the lead-lined sleeve it had been presented to him in, hidden it and then gone back the next day to retrieve it. The landlord had been gagging for some gossip, so John obliged him enough to be let in, retrieve his jacket (his excuse to be there), and the hidden phone, and no one was any the wiser.

Suspecting that the British Government was as subject to human nature as anyone, he was banking on the fact that they were still using the same kinds of cameras and security on the WiFi system they were connected to. He needed time to let the laptop do its thing, and then for the phone to scan the office, and he couldn’t do that during his session with Ella.

Hence his trip to a certain bakery and coffee shop, arriving a good 30 minutes early for his appointment.

“John, you’re early.” Mandeep sounded surprised, as he was usually promptly on time.

He slid the coffee and danish onto her desk. She had been Ella’s PA for nearly two years and they had casually gotten to know each other – enough that he knew her weakness for latte and apricot danishes, which he occasionally surprised her with.

He smiled sadly at her, doing his best puppy-dog eyes. “I’m not looking forward to today’s session. Thought a bit of quiet time might help.” He nodded to the TimeOut room, “Is it free?”

“Oh,” she softened in warm understanding. “Yes, of course, take all the time you need. Thanks for the treats.”

Giving her a strained smile, he nodded, “You always deserve them.”

Locking the door with the Occupied button, he quickly unpacked all the gear from his satchel, having ensured everything was fully charged. First he connected the laptop to his normal phone’s data network, then loaded up the encrypted network (praying that no one was alerted to its activation). Once that was up and verified, he took the MI6 phone out, carefully logged into it (grateful they hadn’t changed the password), connected it to the encrypted network, waited until all the security protocols were authenticated, and then turned the scanning software on.

He had ten minutes before his session. He sat, sweating nervously, watching the phone as it identified three cameras present in Ella’s office. Using his personal phone to snap the screen as evidence, he noted the positioning of the cameras, trying to map out mentally where they were. Taking a chance, he tried to download the data off one camera, surprised when it happily transferred across, waiting as long as he could to get as much as possible. 

Making a mental note to load backup copies of the data to some online storage for redundancy, he hurriedly packed everything up. He took five minutes to practice some deep breathing exercises to calm his pounding pulse. He wanted to tell Ella. It was a grievous breach of privacy and medical ethics, and she would be horrified. Plus, he had no way to determine whether they listened in on his sessions only, or all of her clients, until he looked at the data. 

The potential fallout from this could be cataclysmic for Mycroft. The opportunity to leverage (aka blackmail) him with it was unprecedented, and he would only have the one chance at it. 

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his satchel and prepared to put in an award winning performance.

* 

“John, you are very agitated today. Can we talk about that?” Ella sounded mildly concerned. He knew he was broadcasting distress with his body language, and cheered internally for his coming Oscar nomination.

It was easier now for him to channel his anger, giving it a focus and a direction. Letting just enough of it leak through into his behaviour – short, sharp replies, fidgeting, tapping his fingers, being evasive. Ironic that he was now using the skills she had been teaching him for managing his anger issues against her.

But today he needed to get his hands on one of those cameras, which meant he had to lose his shit a bit. He was pretty sure there was a camera in the bookcase by the window. He only hoped it was free-standing, or this wasn’t going to go as planned.

“Sherlock’s brother called the other day. I hate the way he talks at him, how his whole family treats him, self-righteous entitled arseholes.”

He jiggled his leg, “You remember Mycroft?” he asked with a sarcastic tone, “The one I told you would make you feel like you needed to take a shower after talking to him?”

Folding her lips against the inappropriate smile, Ella nodded, “Yes, a not-inaccurate description. What was the conversation about, that it upset you so much?”

He shrugged, saying bitterly, “It doesn’t matter, they only ever call to tell him how much of a failure he is, how he’s not good enough, doesn’t do this or that. It's cruel, I can see every word cutting him sometimes.”

“You want to protect him?”

He stood up, exclaiming loudly, “Jesus Christ, of course I do. Shitty as my family is, I would rather have that than the way Sherlock’s family treats him.”

Ella said softly, “That's… quite a statement, given what we have discussed these past weeks.”

Letting some of his true pain into his expression, he said tightly, “Yeah. Imagine your mother and older brother, the two most important people in your life, doing nothing but tell you how much of a failure you are. That no matter how hard you try, you will never measure up to their impossible standards. So you break your heart trying and failing, and become an emotionally stunted child who eventually turns to drugs to take away the pain.”

He stalked over to the window, staring out for a long moment before turning with a frustrated growl to lean both hands on the shelf of the bookcase.

“When you OD for the third time, they take away every freedom you have, send you to rehab, then force you to be reliant on them for everything. They control your access to money, limit all your choices, all when you are at your most fragile and helpless. All the while saying ‘its for your own good, we only want to help’, expecting you to be pathetically grateful for every crumb they are willing to offer.”

“That's… horrifying.”

He threw her a scathing glance over his shoulder and leaned into the bookcase, the picture of a man on the edge. Letting his voice get louder, rougher.

“Oh, it gets better. They also take every opportunity to remind him how much he owes them, as if he should be grateful. It kills me, how he folds up, trying to protect himself. FUCK!”

He slammed the bookcase into the wall with an angry growl, knocking most of the top shelf of books off. Cursing, he swept the rest off, thumping it again for good measure, then stopped, looking at the damage he had wrought.

“Oh God, Jesus, I’m so sorry… let me…” 

Sinking to his knees, flailing around while he apologised in random broken words, he identified the one book that was lighter than it should be, buried it in the pile. Ella came and crouched down next to him, giving him a moment to register his presence.

“It’s alright John, nothing broken. We can sort this out later. Do you think you could sit down now, talk to me?”

Shakily he nodded, not looking at her he said, “Told you I had a temper.”

“It’s okay, John. I’m proud of you for feeling safe enough to express it. But let's work on some of those other techniques as well?”

With a sigh he stood up, giving her his best ‘I’m cute and sorry face’, “Can we finish up early, so I can clean up my mess?”

She fell for it, “Of course. Now some deep cleansing breaths. Remember, count 4 beats in and 6 beats out, there we go.”

_ He managed to stuff the slim black book in his jacket, taking time to rearrange the books to hide the fact it was missing. _

_ Sherlock would be amused. _

*

Having backed the data up into the cloud and on to a couple of USB drives (one of which he couriered to Mike Stamford), John sat down in a coffee shop to watch the footage he had snagged.

It was only his sessions with a buffer at the beginning and ending, and it was the last three weeks’ worth. The camera plugged into a rechargeable battery (that he’d already disconnected), a matter of moments to swap out by someone, likely disguised as a cleaner or maintenance worker. They obviously had access to Ella’s appointment schedule as well.

Watching the video, leaving the sound off, was a disconcerting experience.  _ God, I look like I’m going to kill Sherlock. Fuck, even I’m scared of me right there. Look how carefully he judges my personal space, and… oh Christ… the look on his face. He looks like his heart is breaking, but instead it's me messily falling apart all over his bloody silk shirt. _

_ I need to tell him… that I’ve noticed how hard he is trying. How… careful he is being with me. With himself too. Time to dust off the fancy recipe books, Watson, treat your man the way he deserves. Satisfy that sweet tooth of his as well. _

Unnerved with watching the drama play out, he turned it off, closed the laptop and lingered over his coffee. Delighted that he had managed to complete this much of his mission, it was the face-off with Mycroft that was the real challenge. Wondering how he was going to come up with a plausible reason to get him to the flat, John made his way to the tube station, to head home.

*    
  
It was the door knocker that always gave it away. None of the inhabitants of 221B ever left it perfectly aligned, the way it was sitting now.  _ Game face on, Watson. It's an unlikely coincidence, so how much does he know? _

_ Time to bring the Establishment to his knees, and only one of us is going to enjoy it. _

As he closed the door behind him, Mrs. Hudson popped out of her flat, frowning, “His bloody brother has been yelling at him for ages. Do get rid of him, John. He’s saying the most dreadful things!” She really didn’t like Mycroft, and he smiled grimly at her.

“Going to do my best Mrs. H.” He passed her the bag of takeaways, “Hang on to this for a bit, just in case it gets… messy.”

Her eyes lit up as she nodded and gestured at his satchel, “Shall I take that as well, dear?”

Thinking for a moment, he pulled out his phone and handed the satchel over, giving her an assessing look. 

“It would be convenient if Mycroft couldn’t find that for the next little while.” He said it with a meaningful glance upstairs, and the dear lady smiled cheerily, “Oh I  _ live _ to inconvenience that pompous git. Give him what for John!”

He followed the sound of raised voices up the stairs, paused below the three steps that squeaked no matter how you stood on them, and listened in.

“Mycroft, please explain precisely why you are entitled to all the personal privacy you want, but I am denied it?” Sherlock sounded more pissed off than usual.

That familiar oily voice saying sleekly, “Sherlock, it is always for your own protection. Sacrifices must be made for the common good.”

Leaping up the steps, John pushed the door in, phone in his hand, looking at it while saying casually, “Sherlock, I’ve got contacts for The Sun, The Daily Mail and The Guardian. Who's that guy you know at the BBC news desk again?” He stopped, looking up at the two men staring at him, and smirked at Mycroft, “Oh, you were just leaving? Sorry to have missed you.”

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised, and Mycroft opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again. 

“Andrew something, why? What could you possibly have that might interest him?” Confused, but realising that John was up to something, Sherlock gave him his full attention.

He flicked Sherlock a glance that said ‘observe, compute, deduce, and back me the fuck up,’ and then gave Mycroft one that clearly said, ‘why are you still here? piss off already.’ His face apparently said it so loudly that Mycroft actually stepped away from him.

“Oh, just a little story about a minor government official being responsible for illegally recording two private citizen’s therapy sessions.” John shrugged, “I’m hoping, if we get him sent to prison, he might see the error of his ways. Not a lot of personal privacy in there, after all.”

Mycroft said mockingly, “There is no evidence that could possibly ensure such a conviction,” and the hard look on his face clearly said, ‘over  _ your  _ dead body’.

John grinned up at him. “Well, given I have the camera and some downloaded footage, and I had to hack into it with that MI6 software on Sherlock’s laptop, I’d say it's fairly compelling.”

Sherlock looked at his brother, who currently looked like he had bitten into a very sour lemon, and one corner of his mouth twitched in appreciation. 

“John… How did you know?” Sherlock obviously had realised,  _ and that was a conversation they were going to have later. _

Unable to hide his furious delight, John nodded toward Mycroft, “Your smartarse brother gave it away.” John laughed, “Look at him, face like a puckered arsehole. And I’m a doctor, I’ve seen a few. God forbid he should be outwitted by a mere soldier.”

Watching that aristocratic, spoiled face go pale as the power dynamic in the room shifted out from under him, Sherlock wisely kept quiet, but nodded to John.  _ I’m here for you, do what needs to be done _ .

“Prove it,” snapped Mycroft, and John laughed at him with all the insult he could muster.  _ Oh look at him, pompous bastard, so utterly convinced of his way of doing things. What a shock it must be, to discover that other people have different agendas and the means to enact them? _

“I don’t need to, you self-righteous git. You already know at least one camera has gone offline. That’s why you’re here, checking on him. Justifying your actions. I bet you didn’t even ask, just waltzed in, because there is only one possibility that your twisted brain could imagine.”

Pursing his lips, Mycroft stared hard at John, whose eyes were flat and dead behind his edged smile, and glanced away. He looked for support from his brother and found nothing but judgement and censure.

Sherlock moved around to stand beside John, tipped his head at his brother, saying with quiet menace, “Tell me again, Mycroft, why your adult brother has to be watched and controlled so intensely. When I haven’t used in years. When will I be sober  _ enough _ ? When do I get a say in how I live  _ my _ life?” 

John took his phone out and played a short clip of the video he had downloaded, this time with the sound up so everyone could hear.

_ “Punishing people for their mistakes doesn’t teach them anything. Except how to be afraid of you.” _

Putting his phone away, John looked at Mycroft, letting all his layers of protection fall away, losing the veneer of socially-acceptable John Watson. Exposing the man he really was, the one who could kill you or save you, whose hands were equally adept with a pistol or a scalpel. He closed his eyes, breathed in and out, and settled into his skin with all the focus of a sniper lining up on a target.

Calling on his wrath, he growled out, “You  **should** be afraid of me, Mycroft. I will burn your whole world down, even set myself on fire to do it, if need be. Do you understand?”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who said only, “I would hand him the matches, brother mine.”

Shakily, even more pale than before, Mycroft deflated, “What are your terms?”  _ Too quick, too easy, he’s planning something, but he looks genuinely off balance. Good. _

Sherlock reached for the client chair, placing it in the usual spot, leaving Mycroft to stand awkwardly in the room as they sat in their respective chairs. Heavy silence lingered as he fidgeted, then sat gingerly on the hard wooden seat.

John had put some thought into this over his coffee, and he pulled up the list he had made on his phone. He handed it to Sherlock, who reviewed it, edited a couple of lines, added some text, and handed it back with a twinkle in his eye.

Settling into his chair with a satisfied wiggle, John gave himself a moment, “First, you will remove any and all recording and other tracking devices that are installed to watch us, bearing in mind I have the ability to locate them. Next you will transfer control of all of Sherlock’s inheritance – trust funds, assets, investments, cash, and anything else – over to him. Sherlock is to be allowed to exist in the world without any form of government or family oversight.”

Sherlock said smoothly, “John will be invested as executor of my estate.” They shared a glance that said  _ Are you sure?  _ and  _ Yes, of course.  _

Mycroft twitched, and John continued mercilessly, “You may explain to your mother a condensed form of the reasons this is happening. Otherwise Sherlock  **will** explain if you don’t.”  _ Ah, that one hit home! Having to explain to Mummy how he drove Sherlock away from the family – love to be a fly on the wall for that one. _

“No more than two invitations to family events will be issued in any six-month period, which includes birthdays and Christmas. Responses will be received graciously and no correspondence of persuasion will be entered into. No uninvited casual family visits will be tolerated. Including yours.”   
  
John's tone clearly said ‘invitations will not be issued’. Mycroft cleared his throat, about to ask a question. John raised his palm.   
  
“Should you wish to engage Sherlock’s services on behalf of the government, we will consider the requests and email you our consulting rates. Payment will be upfront or by retainer.”  _ Oh, he doesn’t like that at all, and he knows I will enforce any boundaries he tries to ignore. _

“To ensure you play nicely, I will be keeping my evidence, because, as you have so clearly demonstrated, you cannot be trusted. There are several backup copies of the data, in case you wanted to stage a break-in.”   
  
Sherlock sniggered in appreciation, and he and his brother exchanged brittle smiles at each other as John continued.    
  
“Understand, Mycroft, this power and control fetish you have going on, it ends now. Sherlock has made mistakes, we all have. But he has done the work to get sober and stay that way. And he’s not alone anymore, either. Whatever warped family obligations you think permit you to intrude on his life, I’m here to tell you, you’re done.”

John waited while Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, projecting nothing but absolute confidence and commitment. He nodded permission for the other man to speak, delighting in the sneer that generated before Mycroft asked snootily, “But,  _ how _ will you control him, John? You will only let sentiment cloud your judgement.”

“Yes,” John said firmly, “I will, absolutely. I don’t need to control Sherlock, I need to love him to the best of my ability. Which I’m aware is a concept you will  _ never _ understand.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with weary sadness, “I will always be an addict, but there are other ways to get high, brother mine. So far I have yet to build up a tolerance to John, and I hope I never do.”

“I congratulate you both, and wish you a long and happy life together. It appears I owe you both an apology.” There was no contrition in the way he said it, nor was any actual apology offered.

John waited a beat before saying, “Yes, you do, and that wasn’t one. But I won’t hold my breath. As for the rest, you will have to negotiate your personal reparations with Sherlock, although I will mediate if required. I can promise you, neither of us wants that. Sherlock, do you have anything to add?”

Sherlock was the picture of louche elegance, hands hanging relaxed off the arms of his chair, but the smile he gave his brother could cut a diamond.

“I will need time to fully assess the situation. Seventy-two hours should suffice.”

John nodded, “Sounds fair. Mycroft, the clock is ticking.”

Screwing his face up into a parody of a smile, Mycroft nodded towards John, “I have underestimated you, and paid the price. Well played Dr. Watson, well played.”

He looked at Sherlock for a long moment, asking softly, “Is this what you truly want, little brother?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, slowly turned back to his brother, and his expression was forbiddingly cold as he said very precisely, “Air embolism or thallium?”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded, saying hoarsely, “I agree to your terms. May I contact you via email to confirm the details?”

“You may,” said Sherlock quietly, “You should also know that this has been recorded as well. For future reference.”

John said cheerfully, “Yeah, we had to hack into your surveillance system whenever we shagged on the sofa. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Cheeks aflame, Mycroft stood, collected his umbrella, said snippily, “I shall bid you both farewell then.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other and said in unison, “Fuck off, Mycroft.”

And off he fucked.


	7. Audience Participation - willing or not!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock celebrate in the best possible way, and Lestrade has a rude awakening!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ************************************************|  
> As ever, major and abundant thanks to @Hatknitter for beta services.
> 
> The idea for the end of this chapter came while I was out on a walk, and gave me the perfect way to close out this story.
> 
> FUBAR - Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition/Recall  
> **************************************************

John waited, listening, as Mycroft prissily walked down the stairs, half expecting the front door to slam, and exhaling in relief when it closed louder than it normally would.

Shutting his eyes, he sank into the familiar comfort of his chair, hearing  _ We Won, We Won  _ in the pounding of his heartbeat. Half in shock that his insane gamble had actually worked, beginning to realise that earning Mycoft’s ire might not be ideal.

_ It will be worth it, just to see Sherlock free to become who he wants to be. _

“I didn’t know, John, not until Mycroft confessed. I promise.” 

Opening his eyes, John considered his lover, saying slowly, “Would you have told me? If I hadn’t known? Or would you have tried to fix it first?”

“I  _ would  _ have fixed it, but yes, I take your point. Truthfully? I don’t know. You… you would have been furious at having your privacy breached, and if I could have saved you that pain?” Sherlock looked at him earnestly, biting his lip and looking away, “I would have been tempted to try.”

“Of course, getting one over Mycroft would have had nothing to do with your decision?” letting enough sarcasm colour his tone, John waited while Sherlock glanced guiltily at him and grinned.

“You know me too well.”

“Bloody oath I do, just like I know you are dying to hear how I did it. But first,” he held his hand out, “c’mere.”

Sherlock slid into his embrace eagerly, uncaring of his knees on the slightly worn rug. John pulled him down for a kiss that started off sweet and left both of them breathless.

“Thanks, for having my back.”

“Always. But why didn’t you tell me?

“It was my privacy he was violating, and I was  _ really  _ fucking pissed off about it.” He looked at Sherlock with a sly grin, “The best bit was that Ella’s been teaching me anger management techniques. That helped me take a step back, have a think, come up with a plan. Plus, I wanted you to have plausible deniability if it all went FUBAR.”

Sherlocks fingers stopped unbuttoning John’s shirt as he sat back on his heels and looked up. “You were protecting me. But you didn’t quite trust me either? Because of the influence Mycroft has over me, you didn’t think I could be objective.”

“Had, darling, had. Yeah, I was a bit worried you might have some issues. I’ve seen how badly they fuck you up and it kills me. I wanted to spare you that too.”

John reached down, cradling Sherlock’s jaw, running his thumb lightly over those sinfully plush lips. “Did I do the right thing? I was so hell-bent on trying to save you, I never asked you if you wanted me to.”

Gazing up at him through his eyelashes, Sherlock opened his mouth, laved John’s thumb with hot curls of his tongue, before leaning in to suck with long slow slides of his mouth. Bringing his hands down to stroke the length of John’s thighs, spanning those facile fingers, thumbs rubbing teasing circles.

Mouth curving in a smirk as John groaned, his erection clearly visible as he rocked his hips under Sherlock’s touch, he pulled his mouth off with an obscene slurp. Licking his lips, he said hoarsely “I would have dropped to my knees and sucked you off, right there in front of Mycroft. What you did, and the way you did it? It's unbelievable. Truly.”

“What is it with you and audiences? My god! C’mon, I want a bed for this, we are going to celebrate  _ properly _ .”

As they wrestled each other out of their clothes between kisses, Sherlock growled, “I was looking forward to some quite improper celebrating, actually.”

Laughing softly John queried, “How improper, exactly?”

“I want you to fuck me, John.”

His breath caught, because they had been taking it slowly, learning each other. John wasn’t hesitant; they had played with toys. It was the emotional commitment that they had both been building up to (though neither of them would have admitted it).   
  
“Are you sure?” as a naked Sherlock dragged him towards their bathroom, John shirtless, barefoot, with his fly open, giggling at the ridiculousness.

“How do you always get your clothes off so quickly?” John asked as he wrestled himself out of his jeans and pants, kicking them aside with a cheer, before stepping into the shower. Sherlock was already bent under the hot water, and he drawled, “I don’t have hangups about nudity.”

“Yeah, well if I looked like you, I wouldn’t either. God, I stink.”

“Not for long. Turn around, lean against the wall.” John sighed as Sherlock’s hands rubbed shower gel over his back, arms and arse, reaching around to wash his front as well. He leaned into the pressure, letting the hot water and light massage ease the stress he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying. 

“Better?” asked Sherlock, as his hands wandered, caressing with slow intent. With a reluctant groan, John turned around.

“Mmm, let me do you.” John reached for the shower gel, but Sherlock batted his hand away with a slow hungry smile.

“I absolutely intend to. Let you do me,” he said in that husky, breathless tone that made John literally weak at the knees.

“Oh fuck,” John moaned into his mouth, as Sherlock crowded him up against the slick white tiles, turned the water off, and reached for a towel.

“Mhmmm,” he replied, while drying his hair and body briskly before spreading the towel down on the floor, patting it in invitation for John to step out on to. Kneeling at his feet, Sherlock bent, placed a kiss on the top of each of John’s wet feet, then looked up at him saying, “Hail to the Victor.”

“Sherlock…,” John whispered, but he was shushed.

“Let me do this for you. I want to.” Taking another towel, he slowly began drying John’s feet, then worked his way up, drying him off with care while John watched in mesmerised silence.  The tension crackled between them, until with one last brush of the towel to catch the drops from the ends of their hair, they stood, nude and trembling.

“John, you gave me everything – blood, sweat, tears, and your heart. I’m sorry I never realised just how precious a gift it was, and failed to treat it with the care you deserve. Can you forgive me?”

As they stood there, both naked and vulnerable, not just physically, but emotionally as well, John felt one of the tight knots of anger he had been holding on to release. Reaching out with his right hand, he laid it gently over Sherlock’s heart, feeling its regular beat under his fingertips.

Looking up into those changeable eyes, he said softly, “I can and I have. You gave me just as much, and I was not brave enough to be honest about how I felt. Sherlock, you gave me a reason to keep living. For that, I can forgive you almost anything.”

“Almost?” Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, and raised an enquiring eyebrow before lifting John's hand to press a lingering kiss on the palm.

Feeling the tip of his tongue swirl in suggestive circles, John closed his eyes, “Jesus, yes, I doubt you will be any less of an annoying prat. Gotta keep my options open. Oh, god…”

As Sherlock’s lips closed around his thumb, sucking with obvious intent, John moaned, swaying forward until they were pressed together, shoulder to hip. Sherlock cradled the back of John's head, kissing him with practised ease, tongues tangling as John’s hands kneaded his arse, but the height difference always frustrated John.

“Bed….” Bracketing those narrow hips with his hands, John navigated them into the bedroom, locked both doors behind him, backed Sherlock up to the bed, watching as he folded gracefully back on to it.

He took himself in hand with slow strokes that did nothing to calm the hot desire threading through his veins. He loved looking at Sherlock, who adored nothing more, posing artfully, gazing up at John through his eyelashes, wetting his lips with slow strokes of his tongue, sighing loudly as he stroked his own needy cock.

“You look like you want to eat me alive,” murmured Sherlock, hooking a leg to bring John down to him. 

As John slowly kissed his way up Sherlock’s body, he said, “Seeing you naked is like the best Christmas present ever.”

“Well in that case, I have one more gift to give.” Sherlock smirked at him, “I think it will be your favourite.”

“Mmmm,” John leaned in, and applied his patented Keep Sherlock Quiet method, which was snogging him senseless.

They lost themselves in kissing, touching, rutting up against each other as they rolled across the bed until John pulled back and said plaintively, “You were referring to your arsehole, weren’t you? The gift you are giving me?”

Sherlock looked a little put out, “Was it insufficiently romantic?”

As the lyrics of a certain Beyonce song echoed in his brain John giggled, “Oh you are a daft bugger. It's oddly adorable, like you.”

Pink tinged those knife-edge cheekbones, and Sherlock turned his gaze away shyly as John continued, “Brilliant, amazing, gorgeous, snarky, intriguing, fascinating and fucking irresistable. That's what I thought when I first met you.”

The blush darkened as John said, “Everyone thought you were weird, but you just didn’t give a shit. God, I envy you that so much some days.”

“Don’t, John, just … don’t,” Sherlock’s baritone sounded pained, “It’s a symptom of how broken I am. Why I need you.”

“Why do you need me?” John whispered, staring up into Sherlock's face.

_ He’s only so raw and honest when we are like this, skin on skin, I love it when he lets all those defences down… lets me see the heart of him that he has kept hidden from the world… it's such a beautiful thing, to own his trust. _

“You… keep me right, show me how to be better, be more.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

With a slow roll of his hips, that had them both arching into it with low moans, Sherlock said roughly, “Nothing would make me happier than for you to get your cock inside me,  _ now _ .”

Biting his lip John said, “Can we do it like this? With you on top? I want to see your face.”

Sherlock reached for the lube and a condom (John preferred it for cleanup and health reasons), attending to the necessary preparations. Raising himself up, he slid the tip of John’s cock between his arsecheeks, setting it in place with a soft sigh of anticipation.

Closing his eyes, with a look of intense concentration, he slowly pressed down, and John gasped as he felt the tight muscle release, granting him entrance.

“Oh my god… that… Jesus, that feels amazing.” Fighting a primal need to thrust up, he waited, watching his lover’s face, as he slowly bottomed out with a grunt.

_ My god, he is gorgeous, he looks transcendent… and Oh… fuck… I’m not going to last long.  _

“I really want to kiss you right now,” John gasped as Sherlock rocked his hips in a slow circle, before leaning down. For once his added height was a bonus, and they kissed, hard and hungry. Sherlock groaned and slid his hips forward and back, and John shuddered underneath him.

“Holy fuck… oh, please don’t stop.” He reached down and clamped his hands on Sherlock’s hips as they gently found a rhythm, but it quickly wasn’t enough for either of them.

“Pull your knees up, use your legs for leverage… oh, God…  _ John… _ harder.. YES!” Tipping his head back, showing off every line of his chest, neck, and collarbones, Sherlock rode him hard.

Both of them panting, sweat-drenched, John anchored himself to keep hitting the right angle, Sherlock braced himself on one hand, the other stroking himself off in short, quick motions. His breath hitched in a now-familiar way, and John let go of his control.

“Fuck, you feel so damn good, oh god… come for me, wanna see your face… like a fallen angel…I love you, Sherlock… always.”

With a full-body shudder and a chest-rattling groan, Sherlock came, striping John’s torso with creamy white streaks. His body clenching around John was enough to tip him over the edge, and he cried out in wordless pleasure as his body rode out the ecstatic release.

After they both caught their breath, Sherlock lifted off and tipped over sideways with a blissful sigh, while John reached for some wipes and tidied himself up. Only then did he pull Sherlock in for a throat-swabbing kiss. “That was amazing. Hope I wasn’t too rough.”

“Mmm, no complaints here, I promise. Shift a bit, I want to snuggle.”

Resting his cheek on the still-damp curls foaming over his shoulder, John sighed and relaxed into the well-earned afterglow. He idly worked his fingertips over Sherlock’s nape, smiling as his lover hummed in appreciation. 

_ It's criminal how touch-starved he is. At least now he trusts me enough to tell me what he wants. I wonder if he realises how far he’s come, even if it's therapy by association. _

“You’re thinking again,” Sherlock rumbled at him fondly.

“Mmmm, I like it when we snuggle. It's nice.”

“You just have a thing for my hair,” Sherlock nuzzled into his chest, 

John laughed, “Says the man who purrs when I stroke it.”

“Touché,” he shifted to look up at John. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, love.”

“You’ve never said ‘I love you’ before, not when we were having sex. But you’ve said it before and after. Is there some special significance I’m missing?”

“Oh, well, yes and no. Saying it during sex, well, its a bit of a cliché. So I only say it when I really mean it. This… was special. I wanted you to know that it mattered to me.”

“You gave me my life back again. I would give you everything I have and all that I am,” was Sherlock’s unabashed reply. 

Abruptly, John's stomach gurgled loudly, making them both laugh until John remembered, “Oh shit, I left dinner downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.”

“Why don’t you have a shower, and I will sort it out.” Sherlock slid out of bed with a lithe stretch and wriggle, as John watched with appreciation.

Watching him stalk toward the kitchen, John called out, “Please tell me you will put some clothes on first.”

Mocking laughter was his only reply, and he sighed as he walked into the bathroom. Life with Sherlock would never be boring, that was certain.

*********************************

**A few days later**

Lestrade knocked at 221B, jiggling his hands in his pockets while he waited for Mrs. Hudson to answer the door. He was a little later than expected, held up on the tube, and he was starving. A busy day meant he had only had time to grab some snacks from his stash, and he was looking forward to some homemade pasta or risotto. It had been a few weeks since his last visit, due to a few inconvenient homicides he’d had to investigate.

_ Who’d have thought Sherlock was quite the domestic god in the kitchen? Mind you, if I had an audience as appreciative as John, I might make the effort too. It's touching to see how well he has been taking care of John. Some real emotional growth there. I hope it lasts. _

Abruptly, the door opened to Mrs. Hudson in her best coat and handbag. “Oh there you are, Detective. I’m just on my way out to bridge. The boys are upstairs. And make sure you knock before you go in! Toodles!”

She sailed out the door, leaving him to close it behind him, musing over her words.  _ Why on earth should I knock? Never have before. _

As he pushed the sitting-room door open, he was greeted by the sight of a seated John being thoroughly snogged by what appeared to be a nude Sherlock, on his knees in front of him.

“Oh Bloody Nora!” he roared in shock. 

Sherlock dropped his head to John's chest and sighed. “Didn’t Mrs. Hudson tell you to knock?” he asked pointedly, before gathering a towel around his hips and standing up.

Greg gaped at him for a moment as his brain struggled to process what he’d seen, and John chortled at the expression on his face before saying, “Sherlock, put some bloody clothes on, for god's sake.”

Pointedly holding Greg’s gaze, Sherlock let the towel drop in John’s lap and strode regally towards his bedroom, saying haughtily, “Please knock next time? For your sake, not ours.”

John, who had blushed a fetching shade of red, said, “Oh, ignore him. He loves an audience.”

Choking out a strangled laugh, Greg sat in Sherlock’s chair and cleared his throat, pausing for a long moment. “So. You and him, then.” 

John nodded with a smirk, clearly enjoying Greg’s reaction.

“Is it … new, then, you two?”

“New enough, you could say.” 

_ New enough that you can’t keep your hands off each other, lucky bastards. _

Greg dropped his eyes to the towel across John’s lap and grinned, “Gonna need a few minutes, I take it? Just as well his lordship needs time to get dressed.”

John blushed again, but smiled with smug satisfaction until Sherlock called out, “I can suck him off in under three minutes, if necessary.”

Spluttering with shocked laughter as John rolled his eyes with an embarrassed, “Oh god,” Greg called in reply, “Make yourself pretty, then. I’m taking you both out to celebrate!”

Sherlock appeared, wearing jeans, buttoning up his shirt, “Where are we going?”

“I suspect I’m going to regret asking, but why do you want to know?”

“Need to decide between my casual or dress buttplug, obviously.”

A long-suffering John said, “Sherlock, I doubt Greg is taking us anywhere where people care what you have shoved up your arse.”

“Oh,” he frowned, “shame. Casual it is, then.” And back he went to the bedroom.

Eyes wide, Greg looked at John who giggled, “Oh, you should see your face. I’ll bloody strangle him later.”

“Please tell me you don’t mean that in a weird, kinky kind of way.” 

John cracked up at the desperate pleading in Greg’s voice as Sherlock reappeared, fortunately fully clothed this time.

Standing up, Greg smiled in genuine delight at both of them. “C’mon, lets go to Angelo’s.”

* 

They enjoyed a hearty meal, even a bottle of champagne, lingered over Tiramisu and coffee while Greg teased out the details of their relationship change. Watching the two of them fully at ease with each other made Greg genuinely happy. It had been a long time coming.

Speaking of which…, “I assume you want me to keep quiet about this, for the moment?”

They exchanged a look and John said, “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

Greg thought for a minute, “I’ll agree on one condition; that when you come back, you’ll rip the bandage off and let everyone know. Make it 100% obvious. It will be a lot easier, trust me.”

Sherlock asked, “You mean in a public performance?”

John sighed, “He’s right. Get it out of the way.” His eyes twinkled, “You do adore an audience, love.”

He looked back at Greg, eyebrows raised, “I haven’t said I’m coming back, yet.”

Settling back in his chair, Lestrade pursed his lips, “You will, when you are ready.”


	8. Some People Never Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deigns to meet with a behavioural specialist, John actually does lose his shit but for good reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***************************************************  
> Penultimate chapter peoples!
> 
> As ever - @Hatknitter gets all the thanks for turning this into a grammatically correct bunch of words :)
> 
> Enjoy some more BAMF John!
> 
> ****************************************************

**Several days later**

Sherlock walked into the mall with a grimace. Justine had insisted on meeting him in a public space, explaining that his responses to mass stimuli would give her valuable insights. He had appreciated her explaining her process and, mindful of his promise to Ella to at least make an effort with her recommended therapist, he’d given reluctant agreement.   
  
Listening to the piercing shriek of children, at least three different strains of music, the squeak of chairs in the food court, and the general bustle of too many people in a confined space, he sighed. Scanning the crowd as he walked towards the cafe that was his destination, he noted at least one pickpocket and made a point of avoiding them, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

Fortunately, the cafe was a bit quieter. They would at least be able to have a conversation. A curvy redhead a little shorter than John stood up and waved him over with a smile.

“Doctor,” he said formally, and held his hand out. She shook it with a firm grip.   
  
“Nice to meet you, Sherlock. And please, Justine will be fine.” She had a broad hint of an Australian accent under the London polish. He seated himself, ordering a long black and a slice of cake he had no intention of eating.

She surprised him by ordering a chocolate milkshake, then grinned at him as she slurped on the straw with obvious enjoyment.

“Relax, mate, you look like you have a broom handle shoved up your arse.”

He blinked, then said pointedly, “If I did, I can promise you I would enjoy it more than this.”

Justine laughed delightedly, “Oh, an honest answer. Ella said you were a challenge. I thought she was just being a tease.”

Sherlock inclined his head, taking a sip of his coffee, expecting it to be bitter, surprised to find it more than adequate. He allowed himself to relax a little, trying a portion of the cake, which was moist with a pleasantly tangy citrus icing. 

He shrugged under her assessing gaze, “What else did Ella say?”

“That you are brilliant, damaged, difficult, and would need careful handling by someone who is empathetic and honest in the way they approach you. That you don’t suffer fools at all, let alone gladly, and yet you love your partner with a depth and intensity that astonishes her.”

He smiled slightly, “That’s remarkably concise and generally accurate. What do you think?”

Swirling her straw in the dregs of her milkshake, Justine assessed him with shrewd, calculating eyes. Underneath the affable exterior, he saw the scientist she was. But instead of looking at him like a thing to be studied, he sensed she was taking his measure as a person.

“I think that you are terrified of being judged and failing, that you are extremely brave for admitting you need help. I appreciate that you turned up today, and if you are prepared to do some very hard work, I think I can help you. I know you will have questions, and we can discuss that, but will you make one promise?”

“I’m listening.”

“No matter how hard it gets, will you promise to meet me halfway? This is a journey we go on together, side by side.”

Surprised to find both the coffee and cake gone, he stacked his dishes and put them aside. With a deep breath, he said, “Will you meet with John as well? I would like his opinion, as a fellow medical professional.”

“Oh, well done you. Yes, of course.” She smiled and gave him a nod.

His phone jangled John’s ringtone and he jerked in surprise. They always communicated by text – a call was usually only for emergencies. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”

“Of course. Should I leave?”

He waved her to stay, taking the call, “John?”

“Hi, um, is this Sherlock? It’s Donna from the gym. I’m in John’s class?”

“Yes, this is Sherlock. What happened? Why are you calling me? Is John alright?”

“Well, yes, he’s mostly okay, but you should probably come get him. Before he kills someone.”

“Donna, what happened? Tell me exactly.”

“It will take too long to explain. Just come, as fast as you can. He needs you.”

“I’m on my way. Look after him.”

“Gotta go, the ambulance just arrived.”

Before he could ask, she hung up.

Justine was already on her feet, “I’m parked downstairs. Where do you need to go?”

He patted his pockets for his wallet, “It's across town. I’ll take a cab, once I pay the bill.”

She stepped in front of him, carefully skirting the edge of his personal space, saying firmly “Sherlock, you’ve gone paler than a three-day corpse. Whatever happened sounds serious, and we are wasting time. The polite thing to do when someone offers to help is to say ‘Thankyou’ and accept.”

Her calm, no-nonsense tone cut through his panic, and he rallied, “You get very Australian when you’re annoyed. Thank you, yes, please. Lead the way.”

*    
  
Promising her he had leverage if she happened to get a ticket (and praying Lestrade wouldn’t renege), he nervously checked his phone for updates as they hurtled through the morning traffic. He guided her through the backstreets, avoiding the worst of the bottlenecks where possible, and they shaved a good 15 minutes off the expected travel time. 

It was still 30 minutes too long, and Sherlock was out the door running before she pulled to a complete stop. Grabbing a go bag from the back seat, she ran to catch up, glancing in the empty back of the ambulance on the way past.

Sherlock stormed in the front door like an avenging angel, pushing his way through the crowd gathered at the doors to the beginners’ gym. As someone said, “Hey mate, you can’t go in there!” he turned his head and hissed, “Try and stop me.”

There were murmurs as he was recognised, and everyone backed away, giving him space. Justine edged through the crowd with smiles and apologies, and he nodded imperiously, “She’s with me. Let us in.”

Justine said smoothly, “I’m a doctor. Sounds like you might need my help.”

The door was slowly opened and they strode in, focused on assessing the scene in front of them.

The ambulance crew were attending to what looked like a badly broken arm, its owner white and shaking. Two other patients, with arms strapped and in slings, sat leaning against the wall. One guy appeared to be out cold on a stretcher, wearing a neck brace, and two more waited to be attended to – possible broken ribs for one and a damaged ankle for the other. Six injured and no sign of John.

A cluster of students that Sherlock vaguely recognised as members of John’s class huddled on the floor in tense silence. Donna got up and approached them cautiously.

“Where is he?” demanded Sherlock. “What the hell happened?” Donna flinched in the face of his fury but stood her ground until Sherlock backed off a bit.  _ This is not her fault, she is helping and I need to respect that. Damn these inconvenient emotions! _

Justine said quietly, “I’ll go give them a hand,” and walked over to the ambulance crew, introduced herself, and was put to work by the grateful emergency response team.

“John’s fine. Someone got in a lucky hit and he’s gone to clean up. Likely to have an impressive shiner, though,” Donna said with a tight smile. She nodded at the guy they were working on, “It’s his fault. Didn’t believe John was a real soldier.”

Looking around at the gym, which was set up in an unfamiliar configuration, Sherlock examined everything he could see before turning back to Donna. 

“Tell me exactly what happened. Please.”  _ John is always telling me I need to ask nicely. _

“Mick – that's the guy whose arm they are setting – is one of the senior trainers. They were supposed to do a crowd simulation for us, to get us used to dealing with lots of people at once.” 

Looking at the barriers and fake walls that were setup and the wargame video that was playing silently on the video wall, Sherlock had an abrupt moment of horror. 

“They set up a killbox sim for John, didn’t they. Didn’t anyone know he has PTSD?”

Donna winced. “Mick is an idiot. He was upset that John got special lessons once Sev found out he had combat experience. He was always taking the piss out of John, calling him an old man. Says PTSD is for guys who can’t hack it.”

Fairly vibrating with rage at the stupidity of the situation, Sherlock growled out, “How was this allowed to happen? Not only is it unethical, but someone could have been seriously hurt.”

She shrugged, “Mick is pretty popular. Looks like he talked his mates into bending the rules. No one figured it out because they had John up first.”

Surveying the destruction John had wrought, Sherlock smiled very slowly, “Well, it looks like the old man taught them all a lesson.” He nodded at her, “Thank you for calling me. I appreciate it.”

She smiled at him, “John is kind and patient and a great teacher. Better than any of this lot.” She snorted dismissively. “I’d call them arseholes, but even those are useful. Look after him, okay?”

Watching as she rounded up the other students and hustled them away, he stalked over to where Mick was having his splint settled into a sling, watching with predatory interest. It was obviously his first bad break, and he wasn’t handling the pain at all well. He was clearly a little shocky as well, one of the ambulance team keeping a watchful eye on him as they started packing up their gear.   
  
Over by the wall, Justine had strapped the ankle, and was assisting in the assessment of the ribs. Looking at the assortment of bruises that were beginning to darken, Sherlock felt a warm satisfaction bloom in his chest.

Mick looked up at him with a pained sneer, “What’s your problem?”

With quiet menace Sherlock asked, “Are you left or right handed?”

Looking down at his broken left arm, Mick spat “Right, why?”

_ Oh, you brilliant, careful, clever man, John! _

Tilting his head, Sherlock said in the same tone, “You truly have no idea how lucky you are, do you?”

Something like fear flickered across Mick’s face, and he paled as he shrugged, then moaned at the pain.

Sherlock stepped forward just far enough that he loomed an appropriate amount. “John was a serving combat officer in Afghanistan for two years before he was shot in the line of duty. If you were stupid enough to do what I think you did, you are damn lucky not to have a broken neck.”

“He said he was just a doctor.”

John’s voice came roughly from across the room, “I am. Which means I can name every bone in your body, _while_ I break it.”

Sherlock spun to see John walking with a hint of a limp, taking in the gaping cut on his cheekbone (likely needing stitches) as the worst of his obvious injuries. His shoulder looked like it was stiffening up, and a few bruises would eventuate.

“I’m alright, mostly. Someone got in a lucky punch.” He smiled, and winced, “Ow.”

Justine ghosted up beside Sherlock, donned a clean pair of gloves and said, “That’s going to need stitches. I can put a couple in now, save you a trip to Emergency?”

“John, this is Justine, my new behavioural therapist” Sherlock said smoothly, with a twitch of a grin.

Watching as she unpacked the necessary tools from her bag, John said curiously, “That's interesting gear for a therapist to have on hand.”

She grinned brightly at him, “I’m not your average therapist. Let's move over near the windows where the light is better. Don’t want to leave a scar on this handsome face, do we?”

Soon, John was patched up with three tidy stitches, some medical tape, and a ‘scrip for some painkillers. Mick and the guy who had groggily come to were loaded into the back of the ambulance, and the others were left to be attended to by the rest of the gym staff. None of the people involved looked like they were enjoying the situation, casting covert glances at John as they assisted the injured staff members.

Knowing John probably had a pounding headache, Sherlock dealt with all the questions by saying nothing more than, “I will be speaking to Sev about this directly. The rest of you can fuck off, immediately.”

He’d already obtained the names and phone numbers of the injured offenders, then thanked Justine for her assistance, with a request to bill him for her time.

*

Finally, he got them both into a cab and on their way home. John had already taken some pain killers, but they weren’t strong enough and he was pale and sweating by the time they made it to 221B and he was hustled into bed. Worried about concussion, Sherlock regularly checked in, waking him every 2 hours with fluids and a new ice pack for his face.

Eventually, John grumpily growled at him that he would get a lot better if he could sleep in peace. Sherlock took that as a positive sign, undressed, and crawled into bed next to him. When he woke the next morning, he was alone. Groggily grabbing a dressing gown, he found John carefully chewing his way through some toast slathered in butter and honey.

“‘Mm fine. Face hurts, but the headache is better.”

Helping himself to a slice of toast, Sherlock munched as he waited for his brain to come online. John made him a coffee, sensing that tea wouldn’t cut it, and Sherlock accepted the mug with a grateful sigh of thanks.

John had already showered and dressed, and he poked Sherlock with his toe, “Have a shower, love, and we can go for a walk to the pharmacy. Fresh air will do both of us some good. I want snacks, cos I’m going to do fuck-all for the next couple of days.”

As the caffeine cleared the sleep fog away, Sherlock remembered the parcel that had been delivered by urgent courier while John was asleep. He retrieved the folder from his chair, slid it over to John, who looked at him with curiosity.   
  
“It's the final settlement from the solicitor and accountants, for my estate. We need to go in to sign the paperwork, but it comes to quite a tidy sum.”

Opening it, John quickly scanned the front pages, flicked through the relevant ones, eyes getting wider and wider until he dropped it from shaking hands. “Sherlock, that's a  _ lot _ of zeros. Shares in Microsoft and Apple? That's… you’re… ” He shook his head in astonishment, “Filthy rich, Jesus.”

Shrugging, Sherlock said, “Mummy is a brilliant mathematician, and she saw the potential in computers very early on and invested in shares back at the beginning. She built us each a portfolio as our birthday presents for several years.”

“And they’ve been holding this ransom all this time?” 

“Oh, I got an allowance. But it's all on account, no available cash for buying drugs.”

“Well, you can retire and keep me in the manner to which I’d quite like to become accustomed, actually.” John smiled as he said it, passing the folder back over the table. 

“Does that mean I can finally burn all your horrendous jumpers, then?”

John pursed his lips thoughtfully, “I’ve always wondered what all the fuss was about having a custom made suit.”

“Well, you’ll need one for the wedding, so might as well get the measurements done,” Sherlock murmured as he rose and stretched. 

A thoroughly distracting line of skin appeared as he did, so John muzzily replied, “Mmm,” without thinking too much about it.

As Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom, John exclaimed, “Hang on? What wedding? Whose wedding?”

Knowing how Sherlock delighted in being inscrutable, John decided to wait him out. Not taking the bait would annoy him far more than anything else, and John was not above enacting his own revenge.

*

They walked to the shops, loaded up on snacks and groceries, hit the chemist for John’s painkillers, finally ending up in a quiet corner of their local pub for lunch. Pleased to see some colour bloom in John’s face with food, fresh air, and drugs, Sherlock also noted that his shoulder and opposite hip were both showing signs of paining him.

They shared a Ploughman's Platter, and eventually John sat back with a sigh. Seeing him wounded and obviously in pain bothered Sherlock more than he had expected.

_ For so long, I ignored my own frail humanity, treating my body like a tool to be used. Both of us are older now, wiser too, hopefully. How odd to think that I need John Watson more than I need The Work. It would be so easy to lose him – one lucky bullet is all it would take, for either of us. _

_ Perhaps it is time for both of us to slow down, enjoy what we have now. Settle down, perhaps. It appears I own a place in the country. We should visit. _

“You’re frowning.” John's voice cut through his musings, and Sherlock came back to the present.

“Both your shoulder and hip are bothering you. I suggest a hot bath and a massage.”

“Are you offering or telling me, cos it sounds a lot like telling?” Pain made John cranky and, as they say, doctors always make the worst patients.  _ Mind you, I’m not any better, if I am honest about it. Treat him carefully, appeal to his empathy. _

“Are you always this difficult when you’ve been hurt? John, you left six men injured in your wake yesterday, two ending up in hospital. The least you can do is let me take care of you.” Sherlock let some of his frustration and concern show in his tone and John’s mutinous expression softened.

“I think the KO was an own goal, actually. It was a bit messy for a while, until I realised what was going on,” he smiled tightly. “But, I’ll take it either way.”  _ Does he realise how savage he looks, when he lets go of the facade? Not cruel, but brutal, fierce, and ruthless when he needs to be. _

“What did happen? Is it alright if I ask?” Sherlock nibbled on a wedge of cheddar as John eased himself back in his chair with a grunt and nodded.

“It was supposed to be an exposure to a crowd in an enclosed space, being shoved and jostled, learning to keep your feet under you, with flashing lights and sound to disorient, the usual kind of thing. Mick is a bit of a bully – young and cocky. Bit of a smart arse, didn’t like it when Sev took a personal interest.”

“After our fight?” Sherlock queried.

“Yeah. Sev asked me to spar with him, wanted someone with new skills to practice with. He’s a good teacher, it was fun.” John’s eyes brightened for a moment.

“So Mick decided to play a trick on you or enact some personal revenge then?”  _ I will be having a chat with Sev about the calibre of his staff in the very near future. _

Picking at the last of the grapes on the platter, John shrugged carefully, “He set up a killbox scenario, closed-in space, obstacles, couple of the guys had those fake pistols they practice disarming with. They played some wargame video that started with a lot of fucking gunfire, while rushing me at the same time. I reacted on instinct, until I realised what was going on.”

“How long did it take for you to figure it out?” 

“Once I took down a couple and got some breathing space, I could hear the command channel, and it wasn’t making any sense. Tried to make a break for it, but someone tackled me, got me down on my shoulder.” He touched his taped cheek. “Pretty sure Mick pistol-whipped me, so I took him out, and broke his arm in at  _ least _ two places.” John spoke with quiet satisfaction of his own abilities.

“How?”  _ There are so many ways he could have done that, but it needed to be quick, efficient and immediate. _

“Didn’t you notice I had my combat boots on?”

Sherlock winced “Ouch. You went in prepared then?”

John laughed once, a hard bark, “Let's say I noticed that it was a good opportunity for something to go wrong. Mick was a little  _ too _ insistent that I go first.” 

Sherlock smiled with wry appreciation “With age comes wisdom and experience. And combat boots.”

“Yeah, once I took him out of the game, it was easy enough to disable the rest so that they learned their lesson.”  _ How casually he says that, as if it was nothing to have taken out six fighters with some significant level of skill. How honed his reaction times must be still, a formidable opponent. _

“Sev said if you want to press charges, he will back you up. Also, he apologised, has refunded your fees, and says you are welcome back anytime.”

“I was young and cocky once, and I learned my lesson the hard way too. Mick will probably never fight competitively again. He’s going to need surgery and pins for that arm.” There was calm acceptance in John’s tone; he’d meted out an appropriate response to the situation, and it  _ could _ have gone so much worse for everyone. 

“He will lose his job at the gym.”  _ A comminuted fracture of the radius and ulna? Probably not clean breaks either. He’s young and will heal, but he won’t forget that lesson. Ever. _

“Yes,” John said grimly “I made sure of it.”

“John Watson, you are a  _ very _ dangerous man.”

“It’s one of the things you love most about me though, isn't it?” He grimaced in pain as he stood up. “Snacks, crap TV, bath, and massage. Take me home, Sherlock, I need some pampering.”

Scooping up the shopping bags, Sherlock flourished a bow, “As you wish, Dread Pirate Watson.”

Yes, they ended up watching Princess Bride, followed by Pirates of the Caribbean, until John fell asleep on the sofa.

****   
  
Three days later, they visited the solicitor's office and signed all the appropriate paperwork, despite Mycroft’s icy opposition. There had been one plaintively outraged call from Sherlock’s mother, which John had ended by grabbing the phone, saying, “If you call again we will get a restraining order issued,” hanging up on her, then blocking the number on both their phones.

Looking a little shocked, Sherlock said tentatively, “Is it that easy to just say no, and expect them to respect it?”

John sighed, pulled him in for a hug, saying, “They are your parents. Part of that is to teach you about boundaries and respect.”

“I’m seeing Justine tomorrow, for our first session. Will you come with me?”

“You need to talk to her without me there, but I’ll wait for you, if you like.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course, love. I know how hard it was for you to ask. I’m really proud of you, Sherlock. It's a big step and I’m here to support you, whatever you need.”

*   
  
Later that evening, Sherlock, who was curled into John’s back, said softly “John?”

“Mmmmm?”

“How are you feeling, about the gym thing?”

“Still a bit sore but it's getting better, why?”

“You haven’t had any nightmares. I thought you might.”

“Huh, I’ve had dreams, but only the usual kind.”

“That’s good, then?”

“Maybe. Talk about it in the morning?”

******

  
Justine’s office was small, formal, and the kind of space Sherlock was expecting. Her studio, where she conducted her patient sessions, was a riot of warm, welcoming colours. Plants in pots were scattered by the windows, a large rug stretched across the wooden floor which hosted several beanbags. Art supplies were arranged on a wet bench against the back wall, tables decorated in splashes and streaks of paint told the story of many student experiments.

Toys of various kinds were stacked in wicker baskets in corners, and there were picture books, magazines and some novels stacked in a bookcase. The walls hosted an array of student works, with some astonishing creativity and skill on display.

“I see why you told me not to wear a suit,” he said dryly, aware that in his designer jeans, silk shirt and cashmere v-neck he was quite overdressed for the room. “May I take my shoes off? It seems… appropriate.”

Justine looked supremely comfortable in yoga pants, fluffy socks, and several layers of long t-shirts, the top one sporting several paint splashes and streaks. “This is a safe space, so do whatever makes you feel comfortable. There are drinks and snacks, and the world's most difficult coffee maker. Help yourself, no need to ask.”

She flopped into a beanbag, wriggling in with a rustle of polystyrene pellets, watching as he prowled the room, silent until he had made a complete circuit. As he stood with his back to her, looking at the art on the walls she said, “I met your brother.”

Knowing he’d stiffened in surprise and dismay, he breathed a moment to relax before saying, “My apologies. I should have warned you that might happen.”

“He’s a nasty piece of work. I sent him off with a right flea in his ear. Still, that's one less family member I need to talk to now.”

Turning slowly, trying to parse what she meant, Sherlock asked, “What did he want, exactly?”

“Oh, he dribbled on about your mental stability, past drug abuse, concern for your welfare, some snide remarks about confidentiality.” She beamed sunnily at him, which was not the usual experience of someone’s first meeting with Mycroft.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, “he does… dribble on. Rather a lot, usually.”

“Well, if he was my brother, I probably would have done coke too. He must have been insufferable. Anyway, I told him you were my patient, a legal adult, and that he could take his Official Secrets Act and shove it, because I hold patient confidentiality sacred. Then I told him to piss off. Apparently I get quite Australian when I get annoyed. Your brother is  _ very _ annoying.”

“He would not take that well.” Sherlock pondered the seating options, and decided on a beanbag.

“ _ He _ is not my problem.” 

Sherlock looked up at her and smiled slowly, “I’m not likely to be any less annoying, you realise?”

Justine chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip before replying in a similar tone, “But  _ you _ asked for my help, and  _ I’m  _ charging you a small fortune for the privilege. It will all come out in the wash, one way or another.”

Startled into genuine laughter, Sherlock shook his head. “You surprise me, and I am rarely surprised.”

She looked at him, hazel eyes sharp, but her expression was complicated. Concern, compassion perhaps? 

“That sounds quite disappointing. It is the unexpected that makes life interesting. Tell me why you are here. And before you trot out various trite replies, I only want one answer. Your absolute truth, that thing you’ve probably never said out loud before. Nor even admitted to yourself.”

As he regarded her, Justine followed up, “Take your time. The answer you give will frame the direction we take. It will define your final goal. You can write stuff down, whatever helps. But without this, nothing else matters.”

_ Why am I here? John, of course, it’s always John. But this was my choice, my decision… to acknowledge that if I am going to be in a relationship - the kind that I want - I need to accept that I have unresolved issues. That this may be the difference between growing old together and growing apart…. I need to admit that I need help and be willing to receive it. _

He shifted in his beanbag - oddly comfortable - as he considered best way to phrase what he wanted to say. In the end, he decided to go with plain simple honesty.

“I’m not whole… emotionally. I want to be… better? More? I want to be able to love John the way he deserves. I want the parts of me that are missing… back.” Aware of the tears shining on his face, but not ashamed, he breathed in and then out slowly before looking at Justine and nodding.

Quietly she asked, “Why now?”

“John asked me to go to therapy with him. He – no,  _ we _ – had some issues to work through. Seeing the process, seeing the impact I had made, the damage I had done… how deeply I had hurt him… I saw myself through his eyes, and I didn’t like what I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“Cruelty, narcissism, indifference, intolerance, overwhelming hubris. Or, in John’s words, I was ‘an utter cock’.”

“How did that make you feel?” When he rolled his eyes at her, she rewarded him with a small smile, “Yes, I’m aware it's a dreadful cliché, but get used to being asked it. Validating your emotional status against expected norms is important. Fair?”

_ Yes, of course. She cannot know how I feel unless I tell her, because I physically mask too well for her to judge accurately. Tedious… but necessary.  _

Averting his gaze, he said softly, hesitantly, “Ashamed. Angry at myself, afraid I might lose him, and desperate to do anything to prevent it.”

“Anything?”

“I faked my own suicide in front of him to protect him from a sniper bullet. I would honestly rather do that again than this.” 

Justine smiled in warm approval, “Thank you, Sherlock. That must have been unbelievably difficult for you to say, especially to me. I appreciate your honesty. How do you feel now, having said it out loud?”

He mustered some spark and said dryly, “I’ve been tortured in a Serbian prison, and I anticipate that what you have planned will be far less fun.”

“Then you know that the only way for a wound to heal is to debride it back to healthy flesh - it can be slow and will be agonisingly painful. But it does work. I’m here to help you heal, Sherlock. Will you trust me?”

“Can I bring my violin? it helps me think.”

She grinned cheekily, “Are you any good?”

He gave her his most arrogant eyebrow lift, and she clapped her hands in delight, “Oh, My God, weaponised eyebrows! How very British of you!”

*   
  
John had taken up residence in a nearby cafe, helping himself to free WiFi and half the contents of the cold cabinet, by the looks of the plates stacked on the table. They were whisked away when Sherlock found his seat, ordered a pot of Assam, and gazed out the window for a long moment.

_ He looks calmer than I expected. No ranting about crackpot methodologies and theories, no incoherent outrage at idiotic questions, how it was a total waste of time and money and he was never going back again. Interesting. _

Comfortable to sit in silence while Sherlock processed whatever was going on in his head, John waited while tea was delivered, served up and sampled. It was a small grace, but one he was more than willing to grant. Remembering how wrung out he had been during his first therapy sessions, he understood what mere mortals had to deal with, let alone the analytical machine that powered Sherlock. 

“She told Mycroft to piss off.” Sherlock sounded deeply amused and slightly surprised.

“Your brother really can’t take a hint, can he?” They exchanged long-suffering glances.

“He annoyed her, she told him to piss off, and apparently he did. She didn’t even seem afraid of him.” Now he sounded totally baffled at the idea.

“Well I’m not surprised, given she’s Australian. Don’t they have the ten most deadly reptiles in the world there? Apparently Mycroft doesn't even rate!”

Sherlock blinked slowly, then gave John one of his rare genuine smiles, the one that crinkled his eyes and put adorable dimples in his cheeks (not that John would ever admit that out loud).

“You seem less stressed than I was expecting,” John continued, “Is that a good sign or are you going to explode at some random point in the future? Just so I’m prepared.”

“I told her being tortured in a Serbian prison was probably more fun than therapy.” Sherlock sounded a little embarrassed as he said it, and John laughed.

“Now you are just showing off. But yeah, I hear you.”

He reached a hand across the table, “I’m here, whatever you need, love.”

As Sherlock twined his fingers in John’s, he said with a soft smile, “ _You_ are everything I need.”


	9. The John and Sherlock Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg visits with a request for help, and John and Sherlock make a very public statement. Donovan gets more than she bargained for when Captain Watson makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ********************************************************  
> Yes the chapter count has gone up by one - these idiots insisted on having sex one last time and it was getting WAY too long as a single chapter.
> 
> So here you go as an extra treat :)
> 
> *********************************************************

**A couple of weeks later**

Depositing a decent burgundy and a very nice chablis on the kitchen table. “Didn’t know what we were having, so covered my bases,” Greg said with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock wiped his hands, picked up the chablis and raised his eyebrows, “I’m not sure that dinner will be up to scratch. This is a special occasion wine?”

“Yeah, well, you’ve been feeding me regularly. Least I could do.”

Pulling some glasses out of the cabinet, Sherlock said carefully, “Your company is sufficient, although we appreciate the gesture.”

John said from behind him, “That's Sherlock for thanks, and we like having you ‘round.”

Stage whispering behind one hand, Greg asked, “Does he ever say the T word?”

John offered a tiny smirk, saying, “Occasionally, when he is  _ sufficiently _ motivated,” and Greg sniggered.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock swatted a teatowel in their general direction. “Pour me some wine and piss off. I’m cooking here.”

Pouring the wine, Greg deposited a glass beside Sherlock with a, “Yes, Your Highness,” before retreating to the safety of the sitting room.

“Cut looks like it's healing well. Tidy work on those stitches. Barely leave a mark if you’re lucky.” He savoured his wine, “Oooh, this  _ is _ the good stuff.”

Shrugging, John replied, “Just another scar to add to the collection.”

Huffing a laugh, Greg eyed him over his wine glass, “Most people don't have a collection, you realise.”

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, wine glass in hand, and perched on the arm of John’s chair. “We aren’t most people – need I remind you, Detective? Please, tell us about the case. I’m intrigued that you appear to want John’s input and not mine though. Something medical?”

“Even after all these years, I still can’t figure out how you do that. Yeah, we might have an Angel of Death and we need someone with inside knowledge about hospital procedures.”

John looked up asking a silent question of Sherlock who nodded in answer. John replied thoughtfully, “The specifics will depend on the hospital, but I can probably work you through the basics. How many bodies do you have? Sherlock will probably want to visit the morgue.”

“Three so far, that we’ve identified, but that's why we need your help. Might have missed some.” Swirling his wine thoughtfully, Greg continued, “I know you both more than deserve the break, but we genuinely need some expert help here. Will you come?”

John had snaked an arm around Sherlock’s waist, and was leaning against his hip, taking comfort in his presence. It was utterly relaxed and instinctive, and Greg envied their closeness. It was also the reason he had suggested they pull the bandaid off in public, because they literally couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

They exchanged a silent conversation and Sherlock spoke first, “If we do come back, it won’t be how it used to be. Things have changed, for both of us.”

_ Damn and bugger it, but I knew this day would come. Hear them out first… _

John gave him a quick apologetic smile, he knew the impact this would have, but was still resolute.

“We’ve realised what we have to lose now, so if we do come back it will be more consulting and less directly involved. Where we can manage it, of course.”

“Well I can’t say it's entirely a surprise, and you are welcome whatever capacity you can assist.” Shrugging, he continued, “Shame we can’t teach what you do, Sherlock, but we’ll bodge on either way.”

John pointedly cleared his throat and Sherlock rolled his eyes, with a muttered, “Do I have to?”.

“About that,” John said, entirely too cheerfully. “We talked about that. Sherlock  _ could  _ teach the basics of what he does, and his therapist thinks it might be a useful learning experience for him. So we can talk about that at some point, if you’ve got any volunteers.”

There was a slightly uncomfortable silence, and Greg closed his mouth with a click, “You… have a  _ therapist _ ?”

Breaking out his most horrifying ‘smiling like normal people and failing’ expression, Sherlock stood and headed to the kitchen to check on dinner, throwing over his shoulder, “She’s teaching me how to pretend to be a human being.”

“Well… that’s…. Okay. How long before we can tell?” 

John smothered a snort behind one hand at Greg’s smirk, licked a finger, and marked an invisible score in the air.

“Yes,” rumbled Sherlock as he leaned against the doorway, “Given my role models, it’s taking  _ quite _ a lot longer than expected. Get your ungrateful arses in here if you want dinner.”

Predictably, they talked about therapy and the case, and their requirements around coming back to NSY.

* 

  
“Are we doing the right thing? Going back now?” John spoke into the cloud of hair pressed up against his face, Sherlock having draped himself across John's chest.   
  
“We need a test run, and this gives us a bit of distance to try it out. All you have to do is say ‘enough’ and we’re done. Greg understands.” Sherlock said from the vicinity of John’s sternum, puffs of breath warm on his skin.

“You don’t have to stop on my account, you don’t really need me anyway.” It was his anxiety talking, but John couldn’t help the words slipping out.

There was a moment of weighted silence, then Sherlock pushed himself up so that he could look down at his lover. Reaching out with one hand, he traced his thumb lightly over John’s lips and as he did, he said, “I fell into love headfirst, and it, like the ocean that swam in your eyes, drowned me. But I didn’t mind. You had become my air.”

Bending down, he pressed his lips to John’s, almost ritually, Sherlock murmured, “Without you, there is no air, no light or joy, you are my  _ everything _ , and you are the  _ only  _ thing that matters.”

“Christ, I love you so much. I’m being an idiot, aren’t I?”

“It’s taken you months of therapy to get to this point, and none of it has been pleasant. Some anxiety about returning to a situation that could trigger you again is to be expected. But we are both better prepared to deal with it now. Do you trust me? That I care about you, that I will be there for you?”

“Wow, whatever we are paying that therapist is totally worth it. Yes, you know I do.”

“Then tomorrow, when we go to the Yard, we will explain our new terms. Everyone will know what to expect. I know I haven’t been good about boundaries before, but I understand better now. And if I slip, Greg will catch us.”

“Yes,” John sighed, “He will. Come here, you, kiss me properly.”

***************************

There was a perceptible hum of excitement in the air. Greg leaned on a handy desk, coffee cup in hand, watching as John was warmly welcomed back by the NSY team. As Sherlock settled down next to him (his welcome a little cooler), Greg said quietly, “Is he alright? About this?”

“He has legitimate concerns, we both do. There will be a period of adjustment for everyone.” Sherlock leaned towards Greg to keep the words private between them, as he watched John smiling, shaking hands, and talking to the team.

_ I wonder if he knows what his face does when he looks at John now? How he feels, it's written there plain as day, for anyone who knows him well enough. _

“Yeah, I’ve briefed everyone about the new arrangement. What about you? The thrill of the chase and all that? Won’t you miss it?” It was one of the questions Greg had yet to get an honest answer to.

_ Will it be enough? What you and John have? To keep you off the drugs? God, for your sake, Sherlock, I really hope so. _

Standing and turning to face him, Sherlock allowed a tiny smile to bloom for a moment, “Don’t worry, John is in a  _ very _ positive frame of mind today. I made  _ sure _ of it.”

As he choked on his mouthful of coffee that Sherlock had carefully timed his reply to, Sherlock whirled around, firing off questions about the case too fast to allow anyone to answer, in typical Sherlockian fashion.

_ Cheeky bastard! _ With a sigh of annoyance at how easily he’d been played, Greg went to be ringmaster for his particular circus, wondering when the main event would play out.

***   
  
After three hours of intense discussion, debate, and occasional snark, two tea breaks and not nearly enough alcohol (i.e. none), a plan was in place. John would stay to review the medical files and update the team on expected procedures and staff behaviour. Between lengthy explanations and many questions, it was expected to take the rest of the day, at the very least.

Sherlock was off to forensics, then the morgue, to review the post mortem results, inspect the bodies and carry out his own tests. Greg had already arranged for them to be transferred to Bart’s for that purpose.

“Right, everyone, you all have your assignments. Any questions?” Greg tiredly shuffled his papers together, and looked across the table at John, who gave him the tiniest nod. 

_ Oho, here we go, show time… _

Several people had already filed out of the board room, and Sherlock had his phone out, rapidly scrolling through something while muttering under his breath as he waited for the doorway to clear. John quietly stood and, as Sherlock got near the door, he spoke in a tone Greg rarely heard, a snap of command undercut with a growl of dominance.

“ **Sherlock.** ”

So absolute was his authority that the whole room stilled, wondering what the hell was happening.

One tall, stylishly clad detective had stopped in his tracks, and Greg had noticed the brief moment of shock on his face, before he smoothed it over with familiar petulance. Rolling his eyes and heaving a put-upon sigh, he huffed, “Really?”

John merely arched an eyebrow at him, and the tension in the room became tangible. Glances were exchanged, shoulders were shrugged, what the hell was going on? 

So when Sherlock strode over, cupped John’s face with gentle fingertips, and kissed him with a frankly indecent amount of tongue, there was an utterly shocked moment of silence. Until Greg pointedly cleared his throat,  _ yeah, enough, guys. _

With a soft smile, John said, “Kissing your boyfriend goodbye is not a pointless social nicety. Play nicely with Anderson.”

Halfway out the door, Sherlock turned with a wicked grin, “Why, what happens if I don’t?”

John tilted his head a tiny amount, pursed his lips, and something interesting was communicated between them, but it was so quick and personal Greg couldn’t tell what it was.

With more than a hint of that growl in his voice, John said only, “Well… I can  _ guarantee _ I know what  _ won’t _ happen. Behave.”

Leaving a smirk behind like the veritable Cheshire Cat, Sherlock strode on to Forensics. In the boardroom, the stunned silence lingered as people processed what they had seen, and then a round of applause, some wolf whistles, and cheers had John ducking his head with a shy smile.

Everyone was abuzz with the juiciest gossip to be had at NSY in a long time, many with questions that Greg fended off. As they walked to the office that Greg had set aside for John’s use, a familiar sarcastic voice called out from behind them.

“So, who’s the bitch then?” Furious at Donovan’s completely inappropriate and too-public question, Greg turned to call her into his office, but John got there first.

Putting a hand out to keep Greg out of it, John walked back to Donovan, slowly looked her up and down while unconsciously moving into a parade rest stance. Enough people had heard her call out that an audience had gathered to watch the show.

Under John’s thoroughly unimpressed gaze, Donovan flushed, assuming a similar military posture, but she held her ground. John let the moment draw out long enough to make sure it was excruciatingly embarrassing for her. His control over the situation was complete.

With quiet menace, he spoke loud enough for the onlookers to hear, every word loaded with contempt, “I think everyone here knows the answer to your question. You are  _ dismissed _ , Sergeant Donovan.”

Chin up, he waited while she blushed even harder, muttered an almost inaudible ‘Sorry, I’ll just..’ and walked in the opposite direction. John cast his cool measuring gaze over the watching crowd, who all suddenly found an urgent need to be elsewhere. When everyone had dispersed, John let himself relax, turned back to Greg with a wry smile and a shrug.

Returning the smile, Greg said quietly, “You’ll have to tell me how you do that, Captain Watson. Bloody impressive.”

“Respect, boundaries and consistency. They don’t need to like you, but if you treat them fairly within those limits, eventually they will trust you.” John flicked a glance around the people still warily looking at him, and grinned, “Confidence in your own abilities helps, and they know me well enough to be a little uncertain what I’m really capable of.”

As Greg showed him into the office he said, “What exactly  _ are  _ you capable of?”

John looked at him for a long moment, and something complicated showed in those stormcloud eyes. “I’m a doctor, trauma surgeon, soldier, crack shot, war veteran and the man who loves and is loved by Sherlock Holmes. Do you  _ really  _ want to know?”

_ That was a more honest answer than I expected. A man of hidden depths is our John Watson. I can see why even Sherlock finds him intriguing. _

“How good a shot are you?” Greg asked idly.

“Division champion, three years running.” John sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised at the question.

“Want to go down to the range sometime, a bit of friendly competition?” 

“Loser stumps up a bottle of whisky? The good stuff.” John leaned back with a casual stretch, but the look in his eyes was calculating.

With a wince, Greg nodded, “Yeah, okay. Might have a bit of an audience though. D’you mind?”

John sat back with a smug grin, “Not my reputation at stake, Greg.”

“Ooooh, rate yourself just a bit, doncha?”

In a remarkably camp version of Sherlock, John replied, “Know when you are beaten, Gavin.” 

When the assisting officers came in, they were startled to see their boss and John giggling like idiots. Dimmock looked at the others and shrugged. It really had been  _ that  _ kind of day.


	10. Vomitus Interruptus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home from a fun night out, things get hot and steamy.... until they don't.
> 
> CW: Vomiting referenced at end of chapter due to allergic reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *************************************************************************  
> My muse has finally returned! HUZZAH! I was really stuck with the ending of this and I got struck by the mushroom allergy at 2am this morning. Which feeds into the next chapter and possibly the next.
> 
> This story has more to tell me, so Im going to write what I have and then see where else it leads, while I swap over to my GO AU that needs my attention.
> 
> So bear with me, most patient and delicious of readers, there will be more! As always - thanks to the fabulous @Hatknitter for her beta services.
> 
> *********************************************************************************

**Several hours later**

_ This is tedious. SH _

_ John? Save me from the stupid. PLEASE. S _

_ John? SH _

_ Do I need to start a fire? SH _

“Are you going to get that?” Greg nodded at John’s noisily beeping phone. “Guessing it's His Nibs?”

With an expressive eye roll, John picked up his phone, scanning the message.

“Yeah, he’s low on blood sugar and cranky. Typical.”

_ I need to get Molly to stock up on snacks for him, and make sure he eats some. _

Standing up with a stretch and a groan, Greg rolled his shoulders. “Time to call it a day. Let’s collect your boyfriend before he sets fire to the place. Dinner, my shout, yeah?”

Wordlessly, John handed his phone to Lestrade, who took one look, threw his head back and laughed. Clapping a hand on John’s shoulder, he shook his head.

“Well, you knew what you were signing up for, mate.” Turning to the room he said, “Good work today, team. Be back at 9 sharp tomorrow.”

_ <JHW> Behave OMW Greg shouting dinner _

_ <JHW> Be nice! _

*   
  
As Greg navigated the always-busy London traffic, John sat back in the passenger seat of the BMW waiting for the inevitable questions. Instead, Greg chatted about the case until John couldn’t stand the tension any longer.

“Alright, ask.”

With a snort, Greg flicked him a sideways glance, “Not after the way you handled Donovan. Mate, that was terrifying.”

“Good, she needs to learn some manners. I was kinder than Sherlock would have been.”

Shrugging as he moved them forward in the traffic, Greg replied, “Maybe, but she’s used to him. It's their thing, taking swipes at each other. No one expected Captain Watson.”

“Yeah, well, hopefully they’ll show some respect now. Is the gossip running red hot?”

“Well, once word got out who won the office pool, that caused a bit more of a stir.”

“How much was it? And who won?”

As Greg indicated to turn into St. Bart’s, he grinned, “Oh, a tidy three figures. Thought we might go to that fancy French place you like.”

“Oh… you didn’t? Cheeky bugger. Mind you, after all these years, guess it's fair enough. Well played.”

As the car slid smoothly into a parking space, Greg cleared his throat, “John…?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you alright? I mean, happy and stuff?”

“Am I alright with the fact I outed myself, kissed Sherlock in public, and had to teach one of your staff a lesson about boundaries?” John asked lightly as he unclipped his seatbelt. “No one got shot or required medical attention, so let's just count our blessings, shall we?”

Greg looked slightly startled, so he carried on, “Yes, we are both really happy. It's not easy, and we both have a lot of work to do, but yeah, it's good. Very good.”

“Well, if that kiss was any indication, I would say you are a very lucky man.”

“Oh, Detective, you have  _ no  _ idea!”

“La La La La Happy Place!”

*

Molly greeted them with a frown, and then a tentative smile when she saw who it was.

“How bad has he been? On a scale of ‘the usual’ to ‘can I slip a sedative into his coffee’?” John asked cheerfully, then stepped forward and gave her a hug. “Hey, Molls, long time.”

She smiled at him shyly, “Well, once word got out he was here, no one bothered me at all. So I’ve had a lovely day, very quiet. He’s in the morgue with the bodies.”

“Of course he is. I’ll just round him up. Won’t be long, Greg.”

“Yeah alright, need to chat with my favourite ME here anyway.”

*   
  
As he walked into the morgue, he saw Sherlock, gloved up and bent over the powerful magnifying glass. John took a moment to appreciate the view of his lover working in shirtsleeves, and those pants hugging every curve of his arse.

“Hand me the fine tweezers, will you?” He imperiously held out one hand.

Picking them up from the instrument tray, John laid them in the outstretched hand while running his other down to cup Sherlock’s bum. 

“Say… ‘Please’ and ‘Thankyou’.”

“Oh… you’re not Molly.” Sherlock straightened under his touch, turning his head enough to flick a grin over his shoulder.

“Mmmm, no I’m not, but Molly still deserves some respect. How do we do that?”

John was pleased to see a hint of pink on those cheekbones as Sherlock said, quietly, “We take the time to be polite. Even when we can’t see the point of it.”

“Because?”

“Politeness builds social currency.”

“Good boy, Justine would be proud. You done here? Greg is going to take us to Savoir for dinner.”

Sliding the body into its assigned chiller space, Sherlock stripped off his gloves and shrugged himself into his jacket with a grin. “Oh, he cashed in on the pool did he?”

“Clever bastard. Still, nice of him to take us out to celebrate.”

As they clattered up the stairs to the lab, just before they pushed the fire doors open, Sherlock pulled John aside, “Wait for a moment.”

“What, why?” Looking around for an emergency, John found himself pulled tight against Sherlock’s chest, looking through the glass windows.

Molly and Greg were standing in the corridor talking. There was something about the way they were standing that made John pay attention. Then his eyes opened wide as Greg dipped, pressing a quick kiss to her upraised lips. With smiles for each other and a trailing clasp of fingers, Molly walked back into the lab while Greg stood for a moment, looking after her with a soft smile on his face, then shook himself and pulled out his phone.

“Oh… how long’s that been going on?” John asked quietly.

“Three months or so. I wasn’t paying attention. Let’s give it a moment before we intrude.”

Turning in Sherlock’s arms, pressing him against the wall, John smiled up at his lover. “Empathy? Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I traded him in for a new model, do you mind?”

Before he got a chance to reply, the door pushed open beside them, “Oi, you two, snog later, yeah?” Greg’s eyes twinkled as he smirked at them, “Molly tells me you found something interesting?”

As they walked through the doors, John said oh so casually, “Why don’t you invite her to dinner? It's been ages, and we can all catch up.”

Sherlock rumbled with amusement, “After all, you have ill-gotten gains to dispose of, or so I hear.”

“Oh, you bastard. With everything I’ve had to put up with… bloody earned every cent.”

John said quietly, “And none of it would have happened without Molly. I think she deserves it just as much.”    
  
He pushed the door to the lab open, calling out, “Grab your coat, Molly, we’re taking you for dinner.”

“We?” spluttered Greg, mildly offended.

Turning to the detective, John raised one eyebrow, saying only, “Do you want to know  _ exactly _ what it was I had to do for you to earn that money?” He pointed a finger at Sherlock, “Shut up, you.” He looked at Greg again, who swallowed and shook his head, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Good,” said John firmly, “Lets all enjoy a nice dinner out. Shall we?”

*   
Sherlock looked at John and burst into another round of giggles, which set John off as well. Handing some cash to the cabby, he shoved the still-laughing Sherlock out of the cab, fumbling at the lock of 221.

After an evening of good company, delicious food, and some expensive wine, they were both at the happy, silly, and relaxed stage of being drunk. Wheezing with laughter, Sherlock hurried up the stairs dragging John, who noisily tried to shush him.

“Don’t wake Hudders… god, you are all arms and legs… oof.”

Pressed against the landing wall, rendered mute by Sherlock slowly and enthusiastically kissing him, John relaxed into it, giving as good as he got.

Tilting his head to allow access, as those perfect lips sucked and nibbled along his jaw, John closed his eyes and just existed in the moment.

Husky and deep, Sherlock murmured in his ear, “Not just arms and legs…,“ grinding his hips with a slow glide, one hand reaching down between them to cup and stroke John’s cock. Suddenly it was all urgent, heavy breathing, filthy moans and too many clothes, until Sherlock said, “Sometimes, I’m magic bananas!” 

Head leaned back against the wall, John heaved an exasperated sigh, “Yes,  _ alright _ , are you done? How was I supposed to know you had a key to Speedy’s?”

Still giggling softly, Sherlock’s clever fingers made short work of unbuttoning John’s shirt, spreading it wide with a hum of appreciation, “My John. My lovely, lovely John.”

Deftly working John’s belt buckle open, Sherlock looked down at John, licking his lips, “My favourite dessert… ”

Which set John off again, “Did you see the waiter’s face?” he gasped out between laughs, and sighs as Sherlock’s mouth roamed over his collarbones.

“Hmmm?”   
  
“When you told him that the only thing you wanted for dessert was me.” Spluttering with laughter, John continued, “Thought Greg was going to have a heart attack.”

With a moue of complaint, Sherlock pulled back and looked at him, “And then you ordered Tiramisu, and you made me  _ wait _ , John.” Untucking John’s shirt, Sherlock slid one hand over John’s hip, fingers dipping further south, making him hazy with lust.

“Jesus, get your hands out of my underwear. Not doing this here! Sherlock, bedroom  **NOW** !” Alcohol made control of his restraint fuzzy, and the crack of command slammed through the last three words with unexpected sharpness.

Sherlock froze, and then trembled, eyes wide and lips just parted. They stared at each other and he swallowed with an audible click, “Is that an order, Captain?”

_ Oh… is that how it is then? Well… that's very interesting… _ __  
__  
Softly, he asked, “Do you want it to be?” and Sherlock nodded, eyes flicking to his mouth and back. “Is it the voice, or do you want me to tell you what to do?”

Voice even huskier, Sherlock swayed in and replied, “Both, please, sir.”

“Bedroom then,  _ now _ , and be naked by the time I get there.”

As Sherlock strode off as instructed, John ran his hands through his hair.  _ Fuck, I’m too drunk for this, shit shit shit.... Okay, calm down, ask him what he wants, take it slow.  _ Stripping off his shirt, belt, shoes and socks, he took a moment, closing his eyes, slow breath in, slower out, repeating until he felt himself settle as much as he could, with both alcohol and desire heating his blood.

Silent in bare feet, he made his way to the bedroom, where Sherlock lay gloriously nude with an interesting combination of hope and nervousness on his face. Walking up to the edge of the bed, John looked down at him, letting his eyes sweep down his long, graceful body and back up to his face. Turning a hand out in invitation, he growled, “Come here.”

Slowly, Sherlock oozed his way across the bed, pressing his tousled curls into John’s hand with a hum. Unable to resist the temptation to caress and stroke, John indulged both of them until he felt his lover begin to relax. Softly, he tilted that pointed chin up, brushing his thumb lightly over those irresistible lips.

“Do you want me to take control, or do you want to completely let go?”  _ Too easy to allow my voice to roughen, get deeper. I shouldn’t want this so much. _

With the tiniest of smirks, Sherlock said, “You’ve done this before. Most people wouldn’t notice the difference.”

“I’m not most people. Answer the question. And yes, I’ve experimented on occasion.” Sliding his hand back into that unruly hair, he grabbed a handful and tugged hard enough to be felt. “Do I have to ask again?” he growled with a snap of impatience.

Eyes wide and dark, Sherlock leaned into his hand, “No, sorry. I’d like to let go a bit and have you take control. Sir.”

“Likes? Dislikes? Should I tie you up? Blindfold you? Gag you? I draw the line at hitting you.” He tugged his handful of hair again, making Sherlock arch backward, showing him the long masculine line of his neck, far enough to be slightly uncomfortable.

“Yes… ahh... overload my senses, shut my brain down, let me just feel everything. No gag, I want you to hear what you do to me….”

_ Oh… Jesus…  _

“Safeword?”

Eyes heavy lidded, Sherlock smiled that slow, knowing smile, “Won’t need one. You know I trust you.”

Relaxing his pull backward, John glided his other hand over Sherlock's chest, up his neck and, lightning quick, closed his hand around that delicious throat, just long enough to make those eyes blink and widen in surprise.

“Do you? Maybe you shouldn’t? Safeword!” He let go so Sherlock could speak, watching with interest as his carotid pulse ticked up a beat.

_ Does he trust me that much or is he just being difficult? I shouldn’t push him too far, but he needs to respect that we both have our limits. He will ignore his if I let him.  _

Looking up at him, then away, Sherlock muttered, “Banana.”

Biting his lip to stifle yet another giggle, John rolled his eyes at how ridiculous Sherlock was when he was being a prat. Which was, admittedly, a lot of the time. Right now it was infuriatingly endearing, and he needed to get his head in the game.

“Promise me you will use it.” When Sherlock pouted a bit, John grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up at John, “We both have years of emotional baggage to unpack. Triggers are called that for a reason. If you need it, use it.  _ Promise _ me, or this goes no further.” He dug his fingers in a little harder than necessary to underscore his point, and the hitch in Sherlock’s breathing was … telling.

With a jerky nod, Sherlock whispered, “Promise, yes.”

_ Who would have thought, Sherlock Holmes, on his knees for me… for anyone. Yielding. Agreeable, even…. Enjoy it while it lasts, Watson.  _

Letting his voice soften into a low purr of approval, John smiled, “Mmmm, good, very good. Can you keep being a good boy for me? He slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair again, working slow, deep strokes across his scalp the way he liked best.

When there was no answer, beyond some soft moans of appreciation, John grabbed another handful of hair in a firm tug, saying roughly, “You didn’t answer my question. Don’t make me ask again. Final warning.”

“Sorry sir, yes, I can be good.” Sherlock nuzzled into John’s fly, breath hot even through his jeans as he said, “I can be  _ very _ good.”

_ Just how good, I wonder … So deliciously good it's damn near illegal … Christ, this is going to kill me … holding back, giving him what he needs. _

Feeling the buzz of alcohol relaxing his inhibitions, John groaned, wanting nothing more than to let Sherlock follow through. But that wasn’t what he had asked for, so instead he said curtly, “Lie down. Got anything that will work as a blindfold?”

“Bottom drawer of the wardrobe, wooden box on the left hand side.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered in sly amusement, and John paused before kneeling before the drawer.

“Is it booby-trapped?” 

“Not in the way you are expecting…”

Lifting the box out, closing the drawer, John cautiously opened the elaborately-carved box, took one look at the contents, looked up at Sherlock, and slowly raised one eyebrow. Sherlock, having rolled and lazily draped himself along the edge of the bed, unexpectedly blushed, and murmured, “There’s a black blindfold in there somewhere.”

Sorting through the cuffs, chains, soft floggers, various unknown leather straps and buckles, a feather duster, black suede gloves, at least one bite-down gag, he finally found the blindfold. Appreciating that it had a velcro strip instead of a more uncomfortable fabric knot to hold it in place, he left the box open with a thoughtful look. Everything was of the highest quality, soft, well made, and obviously used.

_ I wonder when we were going to have ‘that’ conversation? If he realises we still have to, even after this. Was he afraid to ask, or uncertain how I would answer? _

He handed the blindfold to Sherlock, “Put that on and fuss with your hair later. Lie face down, and keep your hands above your head, unless I say otherwise. Understood?”

Rolling back into the middle of the bed, Sherlock took his time arranging pillows and himself to best advantage, before donning the blindfold with practised ease. With a long, slow stretch and sassy wiggle of his pert arse, he settled into place with a happy sigh, arms reaching up and then relaxing, fingers just tucked over the top edge of the mattress.

Cupping himself through his jeans, John licked his lips in anticipation, and palmed a little harder. Riding the burn of the alcohol, knowing he should take this slowly, but the sight of Sherlock, laid out, pliant and willing, was too fucking tempting.

Realising how uncharacteristically quiet Sherlock was being, he slowly unzipped his jeans, shucking them off quickly. Stripping off his underwear, he stood for a moment, letting a little more Captain Watson seep into his consciousness, letting his voice roughen with a bite of dominance.

“I  _ could _ stand here and just get myself off all over you. Make you wait, touch you, leave you wanting. Would you beg for me, Sherlock?” 

He crawled slowly up the bed until he could murmur in one ear “I want to hear everything you have to give. Answer me.” He slowly closed his teeth firmly over an earlobe and tugged until Sherlock hissed and flexed underneath him.

“Make me,” was the hushed reply.

“Oh… I intend to…” He smoothed his palms up over Sherlocks raised arms, encircling those elegant wrists in a firm grip before scraping his nails lightly over the skin as he bought his hands back down.

Watching in satisfaction as his lover writhed under the touch, he reached into the bedside drawer where their supplies were kept. Pulling out lube and his favourite toy, a sleek black vibrating buttplug with a wireless remote, he put them aside and began his assault on Sherlock’s self-control.

Possessively he straddled his lover, leaning forward to claim him with his hands, grasping and kneading skin hard enough to mark it with slowly fading red marks. Raking his nails over ribs normally ticklish, delighting in the gasps as Sherlock bucked underneath him in shocked delight.

Bracketing those angular hips he squeezed, not yet hard enough to bruise, pressing his thumb with deep strokes over the curve of that gorgeous arse. As Sherlock moaned his name, John shimmied down, sweeping his hands over the back of Sherlocks trembling thighs, cupping and squeezing his arse, before leaning down with a throaty growl, biting gently but firmly into first one taut globe, then the other.

“God, fucking look at you, gorgeous with my marks all over you. No one else gets to have you like this, you are  _ mine _ .” 

Reaching over to grab the lube, he squirted a generous amount over Sherlocks arse crack, giving his arse a light smack as he complained at the unexpected chill. “Behave,” he growled as he slicked his blissfully aching cock, but before he could make another move, Sherlock groaned and abruptly threw himself sideways off the bed.

Stunned John sat there, watching as Sherlock ripped the blindfold off as he staggered into the bathroom, where he was violently ill, from the sounds of things.

Naked and horny, John stared at the empty bed for a long moment before sighing, getting up, and hauling some fresh underwear and his gym sweats out of a drawer. Uncertain whether it was food poisoning or something else, best to wear something that was easily washable. After a moment's thought, he did the same for Sherlock, it was likely going to be a long night for both of them.

He leaned on the doorframe, looking at the lanky picture of naked misery curled around the toilet bowl, and laid the clean clothes on top of the hamper.

“I feel alright. Is it food poisoning or something else?” John asked quietly, while he made a mental list of all the supplies he was going to need for the night.

With a low groan, Sherlock leaned his head on his arms. “Allergy. Mushrooms or truffles. New chef.”

Grabbing a facecloth, John ran it under the cold tap, wrung it out, and pushed it into one of Sherlocks limp hands. “Wipe your face, that will help. How bad is it? Epipen? Bucket?”

Doing as he was bid, Sherlock gingerly sat up and leaned against the side of the bath, already shivering. His mouth and throat area were red and inflamed, and he looked quite miserable. He shook his head, “Vomit for a while. Antihistamines help. Electrolytes and fluids. The usual. There's some in the cabinet. Red box”

“Okay, do you feel up to a quick shower? Looks like you brought up most of dinner already. Let’s get you into some clothes and a bit more comfy, yeah? Do you need me to help?”

Sherlock sighed and nodded his head, and they began the awkward process of cleaning him up, getting him dressed, and laying towels down on the chilly bathroom floor. John rummaged around the crowded bathroom cabinet to find a red plastic box labelled EMERGENCY with a red cross sticker on it. Inside were antihistamines, anti-emetics, electrolyte sachets. All expired, but it was all he had to work with.  _ He wondered what else had been in there before. Narcan perhaps? _

Dissolving the electrolyte powder into a glass of water, he stirred it and handed it to Sherlock, who took a mouthful and screwed his face up at the taste but, carefully and slowly, drank his way through the glass.

“Any breathing difficulties? Throat alright, other than a bit sore or itchy, I’m guessing?”

Handing the glass over for a refill Sherlock winced at his gastric distress, “I’m fairly sure it was truffles used in the potato gratin. The previous chef was also allergic to mushrooms and never used them. It was one of the reasons I liked eating there, it was a safe place for me to go.”

“Oh, love, what a shitty way to end the day. Can I do anything else for you?”

Wet hair plastered down, eyes dark and hollowed in his too-pale skin, Sherlock looked…. fragile, huddled up against the side of the bath. He closed his eyes and shivered again.

“I’ll give it another hour, should be the worst of it.” He raised his head and made a valiant attempt to smile. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Not your fault, don’t worry. I will call them tomorrow and chew the manager out. Come to bed when you are ready, I’ll have the bucket handy and will check on you. Yell if you need anything.”

He pressed a kiss to the wet curls, wishing there was anything he could do. But Sherlock was as medicated as he could be, the illness just needed to run its course.

Setting an alarm on his phone for 30 minutes, and then every couple of hours for the rest of the night, he also remembered to fire off a text to Greg.

**Call us both in sick tomorrow. Sherlock’s had an allergic reaction. He's ok but i need to keep an eye on him. Long night ahead for both of us.**

Not expecting an answer, he set his phone to vibrate, stuck it under his pillow, and closed his eyes, listening to the pained sounds of his lover heaving his guts out. Just as he was nearing sleep his phone buzzed, and he got up to check on Sherlock.

Worried about compromised airway and breathing, he was pleased to see the red irritation starting to fade around his throat, but wasn’t going to take anything for granted.

It was a long night for both of them, but the vomiting settled down after a couple of hours, and Sherlock settled on the bed in a fitful sleep. John blearily checked his phone around 7am to see a reply from Greg,

**Shit, take care mate. Let me know if you need help. Call me later?**

With a weary sigh, John sank back into the soft embrace of the bed, snuggled up against Sherlock, and let himself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:
> 
> If you want to leave comments about issues with my representation top/bottom or dom/sub roles, sizes of cocks, complain that your particular kink is not being addressed, or request a particular kink to be included - PLEASE DON'T.
> 
> I write my story, compliments of the voices in my head. If you like it, I would love to hear about it. If you don't, then move on to the next story.


	11. Role Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a feel for what its like for Sherlock, trying to solve a case, while Sherlock begins to understand the value that John adds to support him.
> 
> Some other more personal discussions are had.
> 
> CW: mentions of past drug use at the end of the chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******************************************************************  
> Writing a case fic is much more involved than I anticipated and this got longer than expected :)
> 
> As ever - thanks to @Hatknitter for her wisdom, advice and handy grasp of the correct way to use a comma!
> 
> ****************************************************************

Waking up grudgingly, with a dry mouth and crusty eyes, John groaned and blinked in the bright sunlight. Rubbing the sleep from his face, he fished his phone out and muzzily stared at it until the time came into focus. Lunchtime, no wonder he felt hollow.

Sherlock was in the shower, the hiss of the water and groans of the pipes had likely woken him. John wrinkled his nose. The bedroom smelt stale, with a hint of vomit hanging in the air. He would need to strip the bed, wash the bedding, and clean the bathroom as well, most likely.

Musing on the day's tasks and delaying getting up, he became aware of an assessing gaze, and rolled over to see Sherlock leaning on the doorframe, towel slung haphazardly around his hips while he towelled his hair dry. John quickly assessed his physical state – no obvious signs of allergy symptoms, a bit pale and shaky, which was expected under the circumstances. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” John asked cautiously. Sherlock was not generally the happiest of patients and it had been an unpleasant night for him.

“Like I’ve been scoured out with acid and then rubbed over with sandpaper, actually.” Sherlock's voice was hoarse and a little painful-sounding, but he flicked a ghost of a smirk in John’s direction. “You getting up any time soon? I’m possibly willing to try some toast.”

Huffing a laugh, John wrestled himself out of bed, shedding clothes on the way to the bathroom, stopping for a gentle kiss on the way past.    
  
“Of course, Your Majesty, how remiss of me to not cater to your every whim. Can you at least strip the bed, and I’ll do the rest later?”

He laughed as he got a pinch on his bum, and let the welcome heat of the shower wash away the worst of the sleep deprivation.

*   
  
They had hot sweet tea, some lightly buttered toast for Sherlock, while John had eggs on toast. They got stuck into the cleanup chores until John chased Sherlock onto the sofa, leaving him there with more electrolytes and the TV remote.

“I’m letting you off the hook this time. You were lucky it wasn’t worse, and you look a couple of kilos lighter. Just sit, be bored for a bit. Catch up on some sleep. Give me an hour or so to get this lot sorted and do some shopping, and then I will give Greg a call. Deal?”

He’d noticed how Sherlock’s hands shook, eyes closing like he was having dizzy spells, and because London's Consulting Detective subsided with grumpy mumbles on the sofa, he knew Sherlock really wasn’t feeling at all well. 

Eventually dishes were done, bed freshly made, bathroom cleaned, laundry on, and fresh air let in. John headed off to the shops for some soup options to tempt Sherlock’s ever-fussy palate, while giving him the necessary nutrients and energy he needed to recover.

Deciding to enjoy some sunshine, he headed to Regents Park and sat on a park bench overlooking the lake. Rowing crews were practising, much to the duck population’s general annoyance, judging from the quacks and splashes as they got out of the way of the oars.

Taking a moment to just… be, John closed his eyes and let the noise of the city fill his head until he felt calmer, more centered. Then he pulled his phone out and dialed Lestrade.

“Hey Greg.”

“John, how’s the patient?”

“About 2 kilos lighter, grumpy, and not yet eating solid food. I think he should wait a couple days before he comes in.”

Greg huffed a laugh “Yeah, I can imagine. Rather you than me. What was it?”

“Mushrooms, apparently. Snuck some into dinner last night, possibly a new chef. Reminds me, need to call them and yell at the manager.”

“Fair enough. Look, I know you have your hands full with His Highness, but can you maybe take a look at the medical files? I can email you what we have and send over the other stuff. We just don’t know what we are looking for.”

“Course, yeah, I was actually going to suggest that. Molly’s ‘path files as well. I’ll give them to Sherlock to keep him occupied.”

“Ta, mate, appreciate it. Need anything else? Caviar jelly or something? Is that even a thing?”

“God only knows, ask Mycroft. Actually, there is one thing. Those paper whiteboard things, can I have one of those too? Be handy to lay everything out for comparison, and the visuals help.”

“No problem, I’ll send one of the lads over later. Keep in touch, yeah?”

“Will do. Shall I give your regards to Sherlock?” John asked cheekily.

“Oh, piss off!”

John headed back out to the street with a smile on his face, hailed a cab, and headed to the nearest Waitrose’s, determined to find tempting treats for his fussy patient.

*   
  
Sherlock had crawled back into bed, and was snoring softly when John checked on him. A vaguely familiar bobby delivered the requested files, a large sheet of paper, and an assortment of coloured post-it notes and pens.

John assembled himself a snack plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes and settled down at the desk for an intensive session on reading all the patient notes and medical history for the three victims.

So focused was he that it took Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder to catch his attention, and he jumped a little.

“Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Sherlock leaned over and pinched a grape, saying “I said your name three times, you never heard me.”

Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, John realised several hours had gone by. “Time for a break, then. How do you feel? You look better.”

John smiled up at his pyjama-clad lover, who leaned a bony hip on his shoulder and stole another grape, so John shoved the plate in his direction saying, “I didn’t know what you might feel like, so I went shopping. Got some soup and lots of nibbly things.” Sherlock’s stomach gurgled quite noisily, and he sighed and rolled his eyes, even as he snagged another grape.

John poked him gently in the ribs, “Yes I know, the frustrations of having to feed and water your transport. Come on, love, let’s have a picnic.”

Standing, taking the time to stretch the kinks out of his back with a groan, John leaned in for a kiss, which Sherlock returned with interest and a murmured, “Sorry about last night. I think I owe you one.”

“Shush, not your fault. Just glad you are feeling better.” More loud gurgling set John off laughing, and he dragged Sherlock over to the fridge to assemble some dinner.

Later, as they lounged on the sofa, Sherlock watched a lecture on forensic science while John mulled over his notes. He was starting to get the feel for what  _ might  _ be going on, but knew he was still missing the final piece of the puzzle to tie it all together.

He put his notes aside with a sigh, and lay back, head buzzing with data, trying to sift it all the way he had seen Sherlock do so many times. It was interesting, being the subject matter expert in this instance, yet he couldn’t help feeling the weight of expectation. Knowing that Greg was relying on him to solve this, he found it a heavier responsibility than he had accounted for.  __

_ It gave him a new appreciation for the stress Sherlock must experience on the more difficult cases, when someone’s life might hang in the balance, waiting on the brilliant mind to piece all the clues together. John was not feeling remotely clever, and his uncertainty and doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. _

Sherlock’s quiet rumble broke into his thoughts, “You can do this, John, you are the  _ only one  _ who can. Let it take as long as it needs. The answer will appear, it always does.”

“I’m not you, Sherlock, it’s taking too long.”

Sherlock slithered down the sofa and crawled into his lap, smiling down at John. He worked those long fingers over John’s neck, easing the tight muscles with deep circles and strokes until John began to relax with a soft groan.

“They are already dead, so time is not of the essence here. Yes, there might be more victims, but all we can do is work with what we have. And what we have is a very experienced doctor, who also happens to be much smarter than he gives himself credit for. What do you always tell me when I reach a dead end?” Sherlock’s fingers never stopped their massage, just eased it into soothing strokes.

John smiled up at him. “Usually, ‘eat something, have a shower and for god's sake, get some sleep!’ but not always in that order.”

“Well, so far we haven’t had to climb into a rubbish skip, but there's still hope…”

“Oh, you daft idiot,” John said fondly. But anything further was interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Go to bed, John. You didn’t get any more sleep than I did, and I had the chance for a nap. It will be clearer in the morning.” 

They smiled at each other, just enjoying the comfort of touching, being present and in the moment, until John yawned again. “Yeah, alright, I’m off to bed. You?”

Sherlock leaned sideways in a graceful fall of blue silk dressing gown, allowing John to get up. “Can I read over your notes?”

John blinked sleepily at him and ruffled the messy, dark bed-hair. “Have at it, but remember I have to decipher your godawful scribble, so make an effort.” He ignored the outraged huff that provoked, stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls one last time, “Don’t stay up too late, hmm?”

As John headed off to bed, Sherlock sat on the floor with the paperwork spread about him, and set to work. John had been his usual methodical self in his approach, starting with all the basic patient details, then going deeper into their medical history.

Several post-its had various questions in medical shorthand, some other questions as reminders for him to check into things later. It was thorough, meticulous work, and Sherlock was impressed. John often made quite intuitive leaps based on his internalising of a lot of data, a process that often surprised Sherlock. As much as it surprised John, sometimes.

John was closing in on the what and the how. Sherlock could definitely see the shape of it coming together, even though it was still somewhat patchy and incomplete. But the information would be there, and John would find it. He left a pointedly legible note asking  _ genetic/inherited disorders not previously known? _

Frowning as his stomach complained again, but heeding John’s advice of ‘eat little and as often as your body tells you it needs it, and HYDRATE’, he raided the fridge and settled in to watch the rest of his lecture.

_ I should give John more credit for his diligence. He is the one who usually writes up our case notes, keeps track of the details I don’t concern myself with. It's often those details that help flesh out the case for conviction, the necessary evidence that the police need to ensure justice is done.  _

_ Justine is right, I lose myself in the thrill of the puzzle too easily, frustrated how slow others are to understand. Instead of expecting them to think faster, I need to slow down, take the time to explain my reasoning, give them the opportunity to digest the data.  _

_ Allowing others to help…. It's not a weakness, and this case is a perfect example. John is a medical professional, and while I have some knowledge, I lack his years of intensive training and experience. How sad it is that he doesn’t have the same confidence in his abilities. My fault perhaps? Something to talk to Justine about. _

*   
  
“Sit. Eat. Breakfast.” John pushed the chair opposite him out with a foot and gave Sherlock a look. The kind that said, ‘don’t argue ‘cos I’m not having it,’ and also, ‘don’t piss off your doctor’. An unfairly expressive man, his John.

Surprised at the bowl of yoghurt and berries, drizzled in his favourite honey, Sherlock subsided with a put-upon sigh, but ate everything, while John poached a couple of eggs, dishing them one each on well-buttered toast, along with a cup of tea.

Nodding at the suit Sherlock had donned, John raised an eyebrow, “Feeling better then?”

Swiping the last of the egg yolk off his plate with the toast, Sherlock nodded. “Normally, the bodies would have been claimed by family and decently buried. But neither of these three were, which is odd. And the way they died was not directly related to their injury or illness, from what I could see from your notes.”

John nodded, “Yes, what looks like two strokes and a heart attack. Of course, they are not uncommon occurrences but…”

“It doesn’t fit. They were otherwise healthy individuals, yes?” Sherlock got up, switched the kettle on, and made them both another cup of tea.

Frowning, John replied, “That's the other odd thing, maybe related to the lack of family. Their medical histories were pretty limited. Everything is online these days, it's all recorded. But theirs only goes back to within the past year.”

“Well, the guy with the shattered shoulder was obviously a scholarship student. Smart kid, if he made it into Oxford from Kenya. So that makes sense.” Making tea on automatic while they pondered the data, Sherlock slid two cups onto the kitchen table, snagging the biscuit tin out of the cupboard, hoping there might be some Jammie Dodgers left.

Around a half eaten mouthful he continued, “It's more likely that the other two are immigrants rather than new identities. I’ll ask Greg to look into it.”

“Mmmmm,” John said slowly, gazing off at nothing, obviously thinking.

Judging that now was as good a time as any to make his escape, and having eaten what was, for him, a substantial breakfast, Sherlock put his dishes in the sink, shrugged himself into his suit jacket, grabbed phone and keys. 

Stopping to drop a kiss onto John's temple on his way out the door, he said, “I’m off to Bart’s, I’ll text you later.”

Smiling as John absently nodded, and mmmmd again, Sherlock laughed to himself on the way down the stairs. Now he understood John’s irritation at being unnoticed while he was thinking.

*

Rousing at a beep from his phone, John started to realise he was alone in the flat, vaguely remembering Sherlock saying he was going out.

**If you get stuck, start at the end and work your way to the beginning. SH**

_ Good idea cheers. Take it easy today. _

_ And eat some lunch! _

**Yes dear. SH**

_ Prat _

_ :) _

Deciding to take Sherlock’s advice, he grabbed his laptop and notepad, opened up the pathology reports and got to work. He left the student until last, because (if he was honest) he had a slightly morbid fascination with the shoulder injury. Left, like his, but thoroughly mangled in an nasty accident.

Clipped by a passing car on a very wet night, he’d lost control of his motorbike, been thrown at speed, smashing his shoulder to pieces. Needing plates to repair his humerus, scapula, and collarbone, and with potential nerve damage, he’d been lucky to survive, with a severe concussion as an added bonus.

John read the surgical notes, feeling his own shoulder twinge in memory, hearing the surgeon's voice saying, ‘an inch higher and you would have bled out, an inch to the right and it would have shattered the joint’. He’d been so very lucky, given the complications, to have gotten off as lightly as he did.

So why did a young, healthy, 23-year-old male, who had survived two major surgeries and looked forward to a normal recovery, die of a stroke? 

His incoming email alert flashed, so he clicked to open it. Email from Greg with the requested background information about each patient. As suspected, the shoulder was a scholarship student from Kenya, been in the UK for 6 months.

The 32-year-old woman with ectopic pregnancy complications was born in the UK to a South African mother and English father. They had returned to South Africa after the death of the father (heart attack) when she was five. Had only recently returned to the UK 4 months ago, single and pregnant. Died of a heart attack after surgery.

The 38-year-old knee-reconstruction man was, again, of mixed parentage. Moroccan mother and English father. Dual passport and travelled a lot, something to do with event management for some high-profile company. Had fallen and injured the knee a few months ago, then a second time while in London for work. Opted to stay for treatment, so had only been in the UK for three months, working out of the local office. Died of a stroke.

Tapping his pen against his notepad, John chewed his lip. The last patient didn’t fit the same profile, he could have afforded private medical care, there was no obvious need for him to end up in the public system. He rattled an email off to Greg with questions, and realised it was long past lunchtime.

_ I can see how Sherlock loses track of time when he is thinking. I’ve done exactly that, it's long past lunchtime and I’ve only just noticed. Ironic that I’ve forgotten to eat. Just as well that he isn’t here to hassle me about it. Food, and then a walk to clear my head. Let my brain settle all the data in place, give it a chance to join the dots without me trying to force it. _

_ Sherlock makes it look so easy, I can see why he gets frustrated when he knows he needs more data. Running on fumes and no sleep will only get you so far, no matter how brilliant you are. The body still needs fuel and downtime. _

A reheated bowl of savoury minestrone soup (which was better than expected), then John tucked an apple and a bottle of water into his pockets and headed out to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. It was warm enough for him to pull off his jumper and roll his sleeves up.

The nice weather had brought the Londoners out in their droves to Regents Park, people lying on blankets, walking dogs, chasing kids. Normal everyday activities going on around him while he was trying to figure out if they had a serial killer in a local hospital.

_ I should go to the gym, can’t think and dodge punches at the same time. The endorphin rush should help, and they might be a little less wary around me, now that Mike and his mates have been dismissed.  _

He kept walking, deliberately not thinking about the case, trying to deduce some of the people around him as a form of distraction. Eventually, the warmth of the sun relaxed him enough that he found a spot on the grass, lay down and let the white noise of the city lull him into a meditative state.

The familiar tune of Sherlock’s ringtone roused him (a dubstep version of Für Elise which had horrified Sherlock the first time he heard it, so John kept it) and he murmured hazily into it “Hey, gorgeous.”

There was an uncertain pause. “Are you drunk? Do I need to come haul you out of the pub?” Sherlock sounded mostly confused, given it was late afternoon on a Thursday.

“Only on sunshine and serotonin, love. Went out for a walk. I’m sunbathing in Regent’s Park.”

An amused snort, “Along with the rest of the great unwashed, no doubt. It's Thursday, Lestrade wants to know if we are doing dinner tonight?”

With a groan, John levered himself up, draping his arms over his knees and sighed. “Yeah, but no talking shop. And let's go out, whatever you feel like is fine. I’ll head home.”

“No, I’ll find you, and reserve a table at Iberica. It's a nice day for a walk and we have time. Alright?” Sherlock paused, waiting for agreement, instead of dictating and hanging up like he used to. Justine was having a positive influence, and John was grateful.

“Good choice. Come down the York Bridge path, I’m down by the Japanese Garden island. Get changed, it's too hot for a suit.”

“I’ve got a pretty floral sundress somewhere, and a straw hat to match…” 

John paused as his brain hiccuped for a moment at the thought, and then he managed, “For god sake wear flats, you are already too bloody tall!”

“My my my, John Watson, you  _ never  _ fail to amaze me…,” Sherlock almost crooned in his ear with obvious approval, “But what would Greg think?”

With a muffled giggle, John imagined the potential look of astonishment on their favourite DI’s face. “He might surprise you. I suspect he has a few skeletons in his own closet, so to speak.”

“A discussion for another day. See you soon.”

*

John almost didn’t recognise the man carefully tailored to look casual, soft powder-blue linen pants, white tshirt, designer sunglasses, who sauntered along the path in charcoal grey loafers with his blazer slung carelessly over one shoulder.

It was the hair that gave him away. As John squinted against the sun and waved, Sherlock strolled in his direction, sitting elegantly beside him, handing him a sleek case that contained a different set of expensive looking sunglasses.

“Thought you might appreciate these.” 

Clocking the Tom Ford embossed in gold on the case, he found a stylish dark-framed pair of smoky blue glasses that, of course, fit perfectly.

“These must have cost a fortune, but thanks. Not normally enough sun in London to bother with a pair.” John checked out Sherlock with an obvious once-over, “You look fantastic, by the way.”

“You look hot. Remind me to take you to my tailor. Do you mind if I upgrade your wardrobe a bit?”

John bit his lip and sat back with a frown.

“Did I say something… not good?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

Chewing on his lip for a moment or three, John marshalled his thoughts before replying.

“Do you have a problem with the way I dress?”

“No, of course not. You have always been quite stylish and practical, given your budget. Although your jumpers….” Sherlock trailed off with a cheeky grin, he constantly ribbed John about his jumper collection.

“Yes, I know how you feel about them, so don’t start. But… why are you offering to upgrade my wardrobe?”

Sherlock turned to look him square on and slid his sunglasses off so his eyes weren’t hidden. John unconsciously did the same and waited, fidgeting a little.

“Like I said before, you always dressed well given your budget. Did you forget that we have a nearly unlimited pool of funds available now?”

“But… that's  _ your  _ money, your inheritance. Nothing to do with me. I only agreed to be your executor because it would shut Mycroft up.”

“John, how long has it been since you worked as a doctor? Must be six months or so. A necessary mental health break, but if you were truly honest with me, would you say that being a GP was your calling in life?”

Shaking his head, John said, “God no, but I needed to have some kind of reliable income. I could never figure out how you managed to afford anything, you work for free so often.”

“Ah, yes, well you should have asked. However, I understand financial security is a concern. But we have that now, and apparently I haven’t been clear at all. It's  _ our  _ money, not mine. I take it you haven’t looked at your bank accounts recently?”

“What? No, though now you remind me, we probably need to pay the power bill.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, “Did you read all those documents the solicitor made you sign?”

John blushed a little, “By the time you and he had finished arguing over the details, I was a little over it. And there were a  _ lot  _ of papers to sign.”

“Well, one of them set up a joint household holding account with fifty thousand pounds in it, with all the bills and insurance to be paid automatically out of it. That new bank card I gave you has access to that, plus a personal expense account with a hundred-grand limit.”

John gaped at him in astonishment, “Jesus Fucking Christ! Are you joking? That's insane!”

ock shrugged, “It’s just money, John, and we have more than enough. Going back to the original question, you love clothes but haven’t been able to indulge yourself. Now you can, and I find myself quite …. enticed… by the idea of you in a well-fitted suit.”

John swallowed at the obvious implications, that him being in such a suit meant Sherlock got to have the opportunity to get him out of it as well.

“Okay, I’m going to need some time to process this. Christ, that's a lot of money to have on tap.” He gave Sherlock another once-over and smirked, “Though, if I get to see you dressed like that more often, I believe I could be tempted.”

Sherlock got up and gave him a bit of catwalk strut, walking away with a sassy swing of his arse, popping a hip on the turn, and slid his sunglasses on with panache. With a slow, predatory smirk he said, in that deep timbre that John was helpless to resist, “If you think they look good on me now, imagine how much  _ better  _ they will look on the bedroom floor…”

“Oh, you bastard, you know Greg is going to take his time over dinner, and now I will be thinking about that all evening.” John put his own sunglasses on and sighed at the relief from the brightness. “Come on, or we will end up shagging in the Tennis Club’s loo, and we are both too old for that.”

Sherlock’s merry laughter rung out as he held out a hand for John, “Let's walk through the park and enjoy the sunshine, while it lasts.”

*   
  
Greg sat back with a satisfied sigh, swallowing down the last of his beer. Waved away a hovering waiter, “Nah, I’ll stick to water mate, cheers.”

John picked at the remains of his tortilla, while Sherlock snacked from several half-eaten plates still in front of him.

The hum of the other patrons and discrete background music filled the silence while the three men settled into the beginnings of a well-earned food coma. Greg cleared his throat, looking guiltily at John before saying hesitantly, “I know you didn’t want to talk shop, but was the info on the Moroccan guy helpful? Do you need anything else?”

Head still buzzing with the ramifications of his new financial position, John took a moment to process, “What? Oh, I haven’t read it yet. Needed a break, so went for a walk. Anything jump out at you?”

“Well, you were right about the medical insurance, he did have it. But it was supplied by his employer, who are based in France. The insurance company changed their policy recently, to only cover injuries occurring within the EU, and he did in his knee the second time in London.”

Sherlock blinked, “I can understand Brexit having an impact, but didn’t he originally hurt his knee in the EU?”

John nodded, “Yeah he did, and it was a sprain, but if he had done as his doctor ordered and worn a brace and taken time off to let it heal, it wouldn’t have needed surgery. I don’t know what he did the second time, but he fucked it up royally.”

Greg winced, “Slipped getting in the shower in his hotel room, and the knee gave out on him. Apparently he screamed so badly they called the cops, thought someone was being murdered. Instead, there was a naked guy lying on the bathroom floor with his foot pointing in the wrong direction.”

“Why was he in London?” asked Sherlock, swirling his glass of Lalama, inhaling the redolent tones with his eyes closed in appreciation.

“Poor bastard was on holiday, come to see some exhibition at the Tate.” Greg shrugged and yawned. “Sorry guys, been a long week. Mind if I call it a night?”

Sherlock smiled benevolently, “Of course, this one is on us.” 

To which Greg blinked and grinned, “Cheers, the both of you. Update me tomorrow, yeah?”

Waving away the waiter again after Greg left, Sherlock sat back and eyed John speculatively, “Are you alright? You’ve been very quiet all evening.”

“Sorry, love. I’m still processing what we talked about before. It's a lot for me to take in.”

Wrinkling his brow in confusion, Sherlock said slowly, “You understood I put you in charge of my estate, which includes the finances.”

“Well, I signed all the papers, but you were the one calling the shots and making the decisions.” John smiled softly at him, “It's all yours, seemed fair enough.”

“Then… why did you agree to be the executor? I’m a little confused.”

“If that’s what needed to happen to get Mycroft off our backs, then it was an easy decision. Plus, like I said, it's your money. And I trust you.”

Sherlock had one particular expression that said, ‘how can you possibly be so stupid,’ most of the time, but occasionally, ‘I really can’t figure out what you just said’. John chose to read it as the latter, and nudged the long lean thigh next to him with his knee. “Do you have a burning desire to use? More than you normally would, anyway?”

Reaching out to twine their fingers together, Sherlock sighed pensively. “I’m an addict, and I’ll always want the high, some days more than others. But… I don’t  _ need  _ it, not the way I used to. More importantly, I don’t  _ want _ to want it.”

He rubbed his thumb over John’s palm for a moment, until John asked quietly, “Why?”

“Because I couldn’t bear to see the look on your face, knowing I’d been responsible for it.”

“I’m really glad to hear that. Can I ask you for one thing? Will you promise me, if things do get genuinely bad for you, you will come to me? Or Greg? Or Justine, or Ella? That you’ll ask for help? You know you can, now.”

_ How can he look at me with so much love and trust in his eyes, this man who gives and gives and is so surprised when I try to balance the equation? What did I do to deserve his unwavering support? John's endless capacity to understand and forgive, even when I haven’t earned it?  _

“I promise to try to never let it get that bad again, so long as you agree to do the same?” Sherlock deliberately pitched his tone towards serious, agreeing but not letting John off the hook, because they both had form around not processing their own issues. 

Another soft smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes quite adorably, and John pursed his lips, “Ouch, yeah, fair call. C’mon love, let's go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS NOTE:
> 
> If you want to leave comments about issues with my representation top/bottom or dom/sub roles, sizes of cocks, complain that your particular kink is not being addressed, or request a particular kink to be included - PLEASE DON'T.
> 
> I write my story, compliments of the voices in my head. If you like it, I would love to hear about it. If you don't, then move on to the next story.


	12. Tiramisu for Breakfast!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to make concrete progress on the case, Sherlock has a bit of an existential crisis, and a suit is worn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****************************************************************  
> Delicious Readers - thankyou for your patience while I wrote this chapter. A round of applause for @Hatknitter for her endless patience with my abuse of the comma.
> 
> Im going to take a bit of a break to work on my GO AU - but I will be back! Promise!
> 
> AUTHORS NOTE ON THIS CHAPTER: I am NOT a medical professional - while I did a lot of research to test the viability of my theories, I apologise if I got anything terribly wrong. Feel free to point it out if I did!
> 
> ***************************************************************

Sherlock was long gone by the time John got up. Having woken sometime before dawn, alternating between stressing about his lack of progress on the case and the revelation that he no longer had to worry about working a 9-5 job to make ends meet. Thankfully, he had managed to fall back to sleep and wake at a more reasonable hour.

_ It’s stupid to worry about it. Sherlock never troubled himself with boundaries before and seems perfectly comfortable with sharing his largesse, so to speak. Do I feel like a kept man? Maybe? Am I letting stupid societal expectations mess with my head, and should I just get over it? Probably. _

_ I really should properly read those documents I signed, or at least get the solicitor to explain the relevant points. Or maybe… I should just trust Sherlock and ask him. I told him I did, and maybe he needs me to demonstrate that. _

Glancing at the dishes in the sink, John sighed with relief that breakfast had been consumed before Sherlock dashed off to wreak havoc on the world. A shower, followed by hot tea with toast and jam, did a lot to set his world to rights, and he set himself to pondering his murder victims.

While he hadn’t figured out how or why, he was sure they had been killed. The pieces didn’t fit, not yet, and his brain kept nibbling away at the edges of his awareness, trying to figure it out.

_ Alright. First, read the files from Greg. Then cross-reference all the ways the victims are similar, and then detail all the individual specific differences. _

_ Oh, and go over the path reports with a fine tooth comb. Wish I had a logon to access them online, so much easier than dealing with random bits cut and pasted into a document. Can’t see how it's all linked and who had access. Maybe I should ask Molly? _

*******************************************************   
  
Justine smiled with warmth as Sherlock strode into her studio, “I was surprised to get an email from you. Is everything alright?”

He frowned and nodded, but his eyes were dark, inwardly focused, so she opted to give him some space. “Good, let me just tidy up a few things and grab a coffee.”

He’d emailed her late the night before, asking for an appointment. She made a point of keeping random slots available, as some of her clients occasionally had a need for an urgent session. So fitting Sherlock in with minimal notice was easily manageable, but from his body language and general demeanor, this felt like it might be one of their first major sessions.

Giving him time to settle, she took her time with tidying up, made them both coffee (only fair, given that Sherlock had somehow tamed the temperamental beast), and assembled a plate of biscuits. She laid everything out on a small ornamental table and curled up in her favourite chair. By the set of his shoulders and the twitching of his fingers, she could gauge his mental state as anxious or uncertain, either about the problem or about asking for help with it.

Granting him the grace of another couple of minutes, she said quietly, “Coffee is getting cold.”

_ It's fascinating how much control he has over his body. How well he has learned to mimic posture and facial expressions to give off appropriate emotions. Most people would never know he was faking it much of the time, and that haughty, arrogant attitude he projects makes sure no one gets close enough to figure it out, I bet. Clever boy. Shame he had to learn that the hard way. _

He frowned at her again over his coffee, a calculating assessment, but she opted for levity.

“Coffee not to your liking?”

“No… it's fine. Quite good, actually. Thank you, by the way.” He wasn’t staring, but it felt like a visual x-ray, and she reached for a chocolate chip shortbread and let the silence lengthen.

Sherlock grimaced in appreciation of her tactic, closed his eyes, and breathed slowly in and out twice. When he opened his eyes, he relaxed back into the sofa, noticeably more present than he had been.

That delicious voice rumbled approvingly at her, “You are very good at that.”

“What, exactly?”

“Giving off all those subliminal physical messages, with the way you speak and the way you are sitting. I can tell you’re thinking something completely different, but you mask it extremely well.”

“Thank you, that is quite the compliment from someone as accomplished at it as you are. Except, I can tell what you’re feeling, rather than what you’re thinking. So what  _ exactly  _ has you feeling so unsettled?”

At his heartfelt sigh, she grinned, “Yeah this is the bit where you have to talk about your feelings. Or at least, what's bugging you right now.” She shrugged, “Or we can sit here and enjoy the coffee. Either way, you are paying for my time.”

Nudging the table with the biscuits in his directions with her foot, she sat and waited, knowing he couldn't resist the dark chocolate ginger ones. Giving him something else to focus on helped him disassociate enough to begin talking, and it seemed he was genuinely distressed.

Watching him nibble away at the biscuit, clearly mulling over what he was going to say, she pondered the complex troubled man in front of her.  _ Whatever this is, it’s serious, for him. _

*   
  
Now that he was here, suddenly being faced with having to air his concerns, even though he had requested the appointment, it was somehow much more daunting than he expected.

He heard John’s voice in his head, ‘stop overthinking it,’ and he sighed, dusting crumbs off his jeans. 

“I had a conversation with John yesterday which alerted me to the fact that we had … miscommunicated about a quite important issue. I might have upset him, and I’m not entirely sure why.”

“Can you give me some more details?”

He looked at her assessingly, “How do you feel about money?”

“Well, it's a necessary evil, and I am comfortably off, all things considered.” Money was often a sensitive topic when the scales were unbalanced.

“But you came from a working-class background? Father had a blue-collar job, mother worked part-time when the kids were old enough. You had an after-school job, went to university on a scholarship?” He said the words with confidence, but a hint of a question in it.

“Yeah, more or less, pretty typical where I grew up. It's a hard life, working on the land, especially in Australia.”

“So financial security matters to you. It's important, to be able to not just afford the basics, but to be independent as well? Not just from a money point of view, but as a point of … personal pride or achievement?”

_ Oh, that's an interesting question… _ _  
_ _  
_ “I was, oooh, ten or eleven before I got clothes that weren’t handed down from my brothers. I was the youngest and the only girl, and eventually they had to buy me dresses and girly stuff. There were times when we ate toast for every meal, when my parents went without to feed us. So yes, I know what poverty tastes like, and it is bitter, in every sense of the word.” It had stood her in good stead as a student, knowing how to make ends meet on a shoestring budget, but she was pleased to have left those days behind.

“Do you judge your personal value based on your income? I know that society does, which is ridiculous. The people who are paid the least are often the ones who do the most important work. But for yourself – if you didn’t have to work and were guaranteed to be financially secure regardless, would that give you some form of identity crisis?” Sherlock was leaning forward, actively engaged in the discussion, and she sensed this was the critical question.

She put her empty coffee cup aside, tucked her feet underneath herself, and leaned forward on the chair’s well-padded arm.

“I like to think my answer would be no, should I be lucky enough to be in such a situation. But the psychology of self-worth is a complicated thing, and for those of us who did not have a stable beginning in life, it can be even more problematic.”

She watched him absorb that and carried on, “I’m guessing you come from money? The clothes and accent can be acquired along the way, but you appear to be genuinely struggling with understanding what it's like to be financially insecure.”

“Oh, I’ve lived rough and dug around in bins for my next meal, more often than you might expect. But I’m beginning to realise that I knew I had a safety net, that my family would take care of things for me. It is, as you say, complicated.”

He sat back, lost in thought again, two fingers tapping out a random pattern that she recognised from Ella’s notes. It meant he was processing, so she sat quietly and gave him the time he needed.   
  
*   
Sherlock could feel the information he had absorbed slotting into place like jigsaw pieces. Tuning out everything external to allow his brain maximum processing capacity, he mentally examined the new picture that was appearing.

_ Did I insult John more deeply than I realised? Is he feeling, perhaps, emasculated? Of course, he must have concerns about his future, and he probably didn’t notice that I had set funds aside for him in trust so he would have that, just in case.  _

_ I didn’t really involve him in the discussions, being so focused on getting everything sorted and keeping Mycroft’s sticky fingers out of everything. Yet he trusted me to do the right thing, which I tried to do, but I neglected to include him in the process. He assumed I knew best, but we both know that is not true.  _

_ He needs to hold me accountable, and I need to ask for his input and advice and give him the space to process. _

Coming back to reality, he realised he needed to provide more data, more specific information that related to his and John’s situation, rather than just vague generalisations.

Carefully, he began to explain in more detail what had happened and why he was concerned. Justine listened carefully, asking questions for clarification, pointedly making them as non-judgemental as possible. It was unpleasant to have his failings revealed, no matter how good his intention was or how kind she attempted to be.   
  
*   
Justine breathed a sigh of relief as Sherlock showed enough trust to open up, if somewhat cautiously. Taking care to listen to both what he was and wasn’t saying, trying to ask the  _ right  _ questions wasn’t easy for either of them. But he honoured their first-session agreement, meeting her more than halfway.

It was a thoughtful Sherlock who sat, playing with a stim toy he had found wedged in the sofa cushions, until Justine stirred regretfully. It had been a productive session, and Sherlock had worked hard, but their time was nearly up.

“I do have another client coming in soon.”

“Oh yes, of course. My apologies.” He took his coffee cup to the sink, rinsed it out, then turned and squinted at her.

“What?” She saw that he was being polite about it, but obviously had something personal he wanted to ask, so she was kind.

“When I summarised your family history, you said ‘more or less.’ Out of curiosity, what did I miss?”

She checked her watch, saw that they had time, and leaned one hip against the bench, facing Sherlock. “When I was thirteen, Dad had a fall from a horse, resulting in a bad TBI. Afterwards, he had issues with short-term memory loss, and anger issues. Couldn’t keep a job, so Mum had to work full-time, and my brothers left school to work as well.”

“Must have been hard for your family to adjust.”

“Hardest for Dad. He didn’t understand why everything was different. He was a good man, rough but kind, good with his hands. He struggled with people, afterwards, but was happy building or fixing things. The tools didn’t demand anything more of him than he was capable of doing.”

Justine smiled a sad smile and carried on, “I helped him, after school. He taught me many things, useful things that could save your life in an environment as hostile as Australia.”

“You understood that he wasn’t broken, just … different?”  _ Oh, there is an old pain, carried for so long. I can hear it in his voice. _

“Yeah, kids are more adaptable, but he was my Dad. It made him happy to spend time with me. He taught me how to drive, ride a horse, shoot, hunt for food, light a fire without matches,” she laughed softly. “How to smoke and drink, too.”

“He loved you, and showed that the only way he knew how. You were lucky. What happened? You look sad when you talk about him.” For an interrogation, he was quite polite and gentle.

“Aneurysm, when I was at University. Mercifully quick, I was told. I never got the chance to thank him for the time he spent with me. As an adult.”

“I’m hardly in a position to judge, but it sounds to me like you did, spending time with him. Then you went on to medical school, and specialised in dealing with patients with similar conditions. You learned from him and took that out into the world, using it to help others. I think that is a legacy he could only ever be proud of.”  _ My god, how could he possibly know that? _

Justine gaped at him in surprise, before catching herself. “How...? Oh, never mind how. That was an astonishingly accurate and insightful thing to say. Kind, too. You are an extraordinary man, Sherlock Holmes.”

He smiled tentatively at her, “Umm, would you like a hug? I believe it is the sort of thing one does in emotionally charged situations like this?”

_ Well that's one way to put it! _ “Go on then, if it doesn’t make you too uncomfortable. Touch is one of the ways people bond.”

She let him step forward, carefully embrace and hold her gently, for not quite long enough, but it was a promising beginning. As they parted, he murmured, “If you tell anyone I did that, I  _ will  _ have to kill you.”

She giggled in appreciation of his witty use of the clichéd line and said archly, “ Living in Australia teaches you to recognise and respect apex predators. I can put a knife in your eye from fifteen feet away, if necessary.” 

_ My god, she just winked at me. The Australian sense of humour is certainly… something. _

That won her a genuine smile and the rather cryptic comment of, “Just wait until you meet John, then.”

* 

_ Questions, questions, SO MANY QUESTIONS! _

John rubbed his eyes, tired from spending so long staring at the laptop screen. Time for another avenue. He picked up his phone and called Molly.

“John, is everything alright?” She sounded mildly concerned at his unusual call.  _ I should make the time to see her more often, as a friend. _

“Hey, Molly, do you have a few minutes? I’ve got some questions about the victims?”

She sounded her usual hesitant self, “Well I’m not sure what help I can be, but I’ll try.”

“Great. My biggest problem is not having access to the systems, so trying to work out what goes where in the files is a bit confusing.”

“Yes, I imagine it is. You could come in, if you wanted. Use my access?”

“Not sure if I need it yet, but thanks. Right now, I have two main questions. Ready?”

“Let me just grab a pen. Hang on while I put you on speaker.”

“I know the first two victims have been in the chiller, so it's hard to tell now, but did they have any injection sites other than the usual places?” Sherlock had not noted it in his assessments, but he may not have realised what would be abnormal, so John needed to check.

“Anywhere in particular?” He could hear scratching as she made notes.

“Major veins or arteries in relation to the brain or heart, is what I’m thinking?”

“I don’t recall anything, I didn’t do the autopsies. They were done by the hospital ME, but I can check for you. There was the usual IV catheter in the hand for the female patient and the knee patient. The shoulder patient had a central line put in because of the damage to his vessels, and his other wrist was broken and in a cast.” Molly was very firm on the facts.

“Yeah that makes sense, cheers. If you could look, that would be great.”

“I can’t promise anything, but you know that.”

John sighed, “Feels like I’m clutching at straws here, but the details might matter.”

He could hear the smile in her voice, “It's asking the right questions, and you know how to do that. I’ve seen you, with Sherlock. You think differently to him, see the world from another point of view. That's important.”

“Yeah, well, I hope you are right, ‘cos I haven’t solved it yet.”

Her voice was warm as she said, “You will. I know how hard you worked to become a Doctor. People see Sherlock, and he shines so bright no one notices that the real work is often done in the shadows.”

“Molly… I, uh… need to apologise to you. I wasn’t kind, when Sherlock was away. I was angry and hurt, and I lashed out at people who didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh John, you were grieving. You don’t have to apologise.”

“No, but I should, because that's what friends do. And you had to keep his secret and not tell anyone. That must have been horrible. Let's do dinner one night, yeah?”

“That sounds nice. Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go soon. What was your other question?”

“Shit, sorry, yeah. I saw a note on the shoulder patient’s chart about an HLA test, which is strange because he wouldn’t be in any shape to be an organ donor. I didn’t see any results, and it was in completely the wrong place as well?”

“Hmmm, yes, that is unusual. None of the victims would have qualified as donors because of the exclusion clause, and none of them would have been well enough for such a major surgery on top of everything else. I will see what I can find. Can I email you?”

“Great, thanks, Molly. Talk soon?”

“Bye, John. Nice to hear from you.”

He mulled over her words as he got up to make another cup of tea and raid the biscuit tin. He hadn’t eaten enough lunch, but it was close enough to dinner time that he would wait for Sherlock to get home.

_ Something Molly had said… what was it? Damn it! Why doesn’t my brain work faster? Why can’t I make the connection I need.... I can feel it, hovering just out of reach. _

Taking the biscuit tin with him, he slumped on the couch, frowning, tired and grumpy with his lack of progress. His eyes hurt and he had a headache, and his low blood sugar wasn’t helping the situation. 

The familiar tread on the stairs told him Sherlock was on his way up, but it wasn’t his usual energetic patter, slower and heavier than usual. He took a guess at the reason when he saw his jeans-clad boyfriend drop a bag full of takeaways on the kitchen table, then turn to look for him on the sofa.

John said quietly, “You look like I feel. Hard day?” He patted the sofa and Sherlock nodded, toed his shoes off, and sank wearily onto the sofa, curling up so he could lay his head in John’s lap. Taking the hint, John started stroking his fingers through the riotous curls, and they sat in companionable silence for a while.

Respecting that Sherlock appeared to need time to decompress after his session with Justine (the only reason he regularly wore jeans, much to John’s dismay – his arse looked  _ amazing  _ in them), he was happy to sit and just be present, and slowly he too began to relax.

“I got lasagne and tiramisu, from Angelos,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Good choice, I’m starving. Let me know when you are ready to eat.” His stomach let out an audible gurgle, which had Sherlock sigh, sit up, look at John with narrowed eyes for a moment, kiss him and then get up.

He held his hand out for John, “Dinner?”

Dinner was duly served up, but Sherlock surprised John with a glass of water and some painkillers.

“You have a headache. It's possible you might need to have your eyes tested.”

Taking the pills, John reached out with his leg and pressed it to Sherlock’s under the table, “Thanks, yeah, they have been sore. Figured it was all the time I’ve spent in front of the laptop over the last few days.”

“Have you noticed that you prefer to use it at the table or desk? You can push it a bit further away to get better focus than on your lap. I should have said something earlier.” Sherlock didn’t sound his usual delighted self when he spoke. Instead he was quiet, even subdued.

“Sherlock, are you alright? I gather you had a session with Justine, what do you need? Hot bath? Violin? Should I go out for a bit?”

Pushing away his half-eaten meal, Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, reaching out a hand for John, who reached back.

“Can we go to bed? I… need to hold you, feel you next to me. Please?”

_ God, he looks so lost. _

“Bloody brilliant idea. You go on and I’ll sort this out. Won’t be long.”

Putting the leftovers in the fridge, John had a moment of inspiration, scooped some tiramisu into a bowl with a spoon and took it with him into the bedroom.

Sherlock was already in bed, the scars pulled tight across his shoulders as he hunched around a pillow. John took the hint and stripped down to his underwear – skin-on-skin was clearly what was needed here. He slid into bed, gathering Sherlock up in his arms and murmuring, “I’m here, love, whatever you need. Just breathe, slow and deep.”

*

_ The steady tha-thump of John's heartbeat helped calm him. Faint woody citrus scent of his shower gel, fingers stroking gently at his nape, he just tried to breathe and be in the moment. He knew what this was the beginning of, spiralling into a panic attack because the thought of losing John was overwhelmingly awful. _

_ Not just what they were now, but at all. His reckless approach to solving cases had left both of them injured, at risk, and they had been damned lucky for too long. Today he had looked at his own mortality head-on and realised  _ **_exactly_ ** _ what it was he had to lose. _

_ Everything that mattered. _

_ John. _

_ Only and ever, John. _

_ I can talk about this. We’ve both dealt with worse, surely? _

As his breathing evened out and he relaxed into John’s embrace and his thoughts stopped racing, he decided to dive in the deep end and hope for forgiveness.

“I went to the solicitor today. I’ve made you the major beneficiary in my will. When I die, you will get nearly everything.”

He felt John freeze in shock, gasping out a stunned, “ _ Sherlock _ ! What the hell!”

“John! Wait, please! Hear me out… I need to say something… important, and it's easier if you just give me the space to do that. Please?”

Reaching out for John’s free hand, he bought it over, pressed a kiss to the knuckles and enfolded it in his fingers. John trembled underneath him for a moment before subsiding with a hissed breath, “Yeah, alright, just don’t talk about you dying on me. Not again.”

_ I can’t look at John, see the hurt betrayal he struggles to hide. It will break me, and that hurts him in turn. It's still too real for him, the pain and grief, hasn't been long enough for that to wear away. _

_ I haven’t had enough time to love him as he deserves. _

“When we talked about money, you were unhappy with me and I didn’t understand it. So I made an appointment with Justine, who gave me a different perspective. She gave me a lot to think about.”

John huffed, but settled underneath him. Sherlock gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and was delighted to receive one in return. Alright, then…

“I need to apologise, for several things. First, for not properly including you in the discussions about what was happening with my estate. You assume I’m making the right decisions, on behalf of both of us, and we both know the truth of that. I was so focused on getting everything sorted and away from Mycroft’s control, I didn’t consult you. I apologise for that, and also ask that, in the future, you take the time to call me out on it. It's inevitable it will happen again.”

That won him a soft laugh and a kiss to his hair, “Yeah right, making you stop what you are doing and listen to me. Sure thing.”

“Second, I need to apologise for not clarifying that I was including you as a benefactor of our new funds. You don’t need to work now, if you don’t want to, and I had already put aside a trust fund for you so that you would be financially secure, should anything… happen… to us. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear about those details.”

“Ohhhkayyy…”

“Our lifestyle, to date, hasn’t easily allowed you the stability to both work full time and work with me on cases. It seemed obvious to me that, once I had the means to support us both, it made sense to do so. Because I have always had the security of knowing that my finances were taken care of, I didn’t understand what it's like to *not* be in that position. Justine helped me see the mistakes I made with not talking to you  _ first _ , before unilaterally making those decisions. So again, I must ask for your forgiveness.”

“Given, and apologies accepted, but Sherlock…”

“Please, bear with me, just a little more?”

“Of course, Love, sorry.”

Taking a moment to just breathe, Sherlock prepared himself to be as vulnerable as he had ever been in front of another person.

John stroked his fingers through his hair, “It’s alright. I’m not upset with you, and I’m not going to leave, if that's what you’re worried about.”

_ The relief hit him like a gut punch. How well John knew him, understood the heart of his frailty… _

“From the beginning of us, you have made all the compromises. I’ve been rude, arrogant, intolerant, demanding, obstinate, single-minded, thoughtless, and completely inconsiderate of the impact that my life had on yours. You’ve been more than gracious with your patience, accepting my behaviour, cleaning up the messes I leave behind. I don’t say thankyou often enough.”

He ignored the muffled snort that was obviously John  _ not  _ saying something pithy, and carried on.

“You have given me everything: your loyalty, trust, patience, forgiveness, friendship, and lucky man that I am, your love as well. But the price you have paid has been high, and I wanted to balance the scales. So I needed to … make up for the inconvenience I have caused you, as well.”

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“Nearly done, and I’m finally sorry if I haven’t made this clear to you before. I’ve given you my heart, wholly and completely. My soul, imaginary ephemera that it is, I would lay before you as well. My body, well, I give that to you as often as you will have it.”

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock heard the smile in that and carried on.

“I’m still going to be an ‘arrogant, inconsiderate, selfish prat,’ I think your favourite description of me is, because that's part of who I am. I’m trying to be … better than I was before. You spent so long taking care of me, now that I’m in a position to, I wanted to take care of you. Give you financial security, so you had more of a choice in what you wanted to do with your life. How you wanted to live it. In essence, I’ve given you my body, mind and spirit, and the only thing left to offer was my worldly goods. Please, John, let me do this for you, for us?”

“Jesus Christ, get up here so I can kiss you!”

He did as requested, melting under the sweet tenderness of John’s lips on his, offering acceptance and forgiveness, absolution and mercy with every touch.

This time, Sherlock snuggled John to his chest, and they lay quietly until John reached over and entwined his fingers with Sherlocks. 

“Thank you, for saying all that. I know that was incredibly difficult for you and I’m really proud of you. I accept your apologies. But I think we need to take some of the communication stuff to Ella, to help us negotiate that.”

“Sensible choice. I agree.”

“Sherlock, I haven’t said this enough, but I can see how hard you are working. The effort you put in with our therapy sessions, that you are seeing Justine. You aren’t giving yourself enough credit for how far you’ve come. That you can not only apologise at all, but detail what you did wrong and why? Everyone has noticed. and said nothing but good things. This is a process, and yeah, you will still ultimately be you underneath it all. But you are not the man you used to be, and I love you even more for it.”

“John…”

“Shush, my turn. Remember, I’m allowed to do that now.”

Sherlocks snort was eloquent, but he subsided.

“Yeah, I was a bit freaked out about the money thing, but now you’ve explained, it makes a Sherlock kind of sense. If I’m honest, I might be a bit funny about it for a while, well, because, it's a bit like winning the lottery. So just, be patient while I get my head around it, alright?”

Humming in agreement, he snuggled John in a little closer and they lay for a bit longer. John clearly had something else he wanted to say but needed to work up to it.

“So, about the last bit you said, worldly goods and all that?”

“Mmmm?”

“It almost felt like… you were offering to marry me?”

_ With a jolt of shock he ran through what he had said, and yes, it could easily be construed as such…. What response is John wanting? _

Taking a deep breath, he said in his best lightly-enquiring tone, “And if I was, what would your answer be?”

With serene calm, John leaned back far enough to smile up at him with guileless blue eyes, and then the utter bastard said, “Ask me properly and find out.”

Then he leaned in to murmur softly, “Unless I ask you first.”

***   
  


_ … He’s going to lose this patient, and it's such a waste… all the blood is draining out, forming bubbles that are floating in the air, he needs to pop all the  _ _ right  _ _ ones but they are all the same colour… How can he tell? _

_ … why are they dying, they don’t need to die?... _

_ … its such a stupid waste… _

_ He’s trying so hard to figure it out, to save them, to stop the senseless waste, because they didn’t need to die… _

_ … It wouldn’t have made any difference… _

With a jerk, John woke from the dream, lying dazed and half asleep still, confused at the adrenaline flooding his system in nervous response. Trembling and slick with sweat, he slid carefully out of bed, Sherlock for once curled on his side away from John, letting him escape with only a sleepy mumble.

Taking time to gather some clothes up, knowing he didn’t want to go back to sleep after that horrifying dream, he quietly shut the door, headed to the sitting room, dressed and sat on the sofa, head in his hands. Rocking back and forwards a little, breathing slowly to calm himself, John waited out the worst of the symptoms before getting up, shutting the door to the hallway, making a rare hot sweet tea, scavenging the secret pack of chocolate biscuits he had hidden from Sherlock (in some old gumboots that were too small for him, in the back of the kitchen cupboard).

Deliberately not thinking about anything but the comfort of the hot tea and the satisfaction of successfully hiding Sherlock’s favourite treat, he sank into the soft depths of the sofa until he felt… steady.

_ Oh My God, I know what they did, how and why, and it was definitely murder. Of the most foul kind. _

Collecting his notes and his laptop, he turned it on, dimly noting it was just after 5am. He probably had a good couple of hours before Sherlock woke up. He was going to have to clearly lay out all the relevant details to allow Greg’s team to build their case and find the perpetrator. With a sigh for yet another morning of lost sleep, he rasped a hand over his face, ruefully agreed that he did, in fact, need to get his eyes tested, and got to work.

*   
  
Sherlock woke with a languid stretch, rolling over and stopping in surprise to find an empty half of the bed. Cool sheets meant John had been gone for a while, and when Sherlock grabbed his phone to check the time, he was startled to see it was nearly 9am. 

He also had several texts from Lestrade, the last one in all capitals “TELL JOHN BRIEFING 10.30am.” Curious, he wandered through the kitchen to see John curled up on the sofa, sound asleep. Piles of notes were stacked tidily on the floor, and his laptop was closed, set down on the floor, no doubt, once he got tired enough to nap.

Aware that they would both need to be up, showered, breakfasted, and on their way soon to be on time, Sherlock still lingered, watching the man he loved sleep.

_ I should ask him to marry me. It would make life easier for both of us, and show him that I am fully committed to him. To us.  _

_ Even as he struggled with solving this case, he still saw that I needed him. Gave me the choice of how to express that, and was just there, patiently listening while I unburdened myself. Didn’t judge me for my mistakes, plentiful though they are. _

_ What I feel for him … defies description. It's overwhelming in its intensity, yet the more I let myself love him, the more capacity for it I find I have. Love appears to be both a catalyst and a synergy, a mutually compatible feedback loop, an endless moebius strip of emotion. _

_ So many ways this could have gone wrong, but we keep finding our way back to each other. One day, I hope to be the man John deserves. _

_ On that note.... _

Sherlock quietly headed back to the bathroom, quickly showered and dressed, made the bed, laid out some clean clothes for John, and put the kettle on. He made a good strong cup of tea, toast dripping with his favourite strawberry jam, and put both on the coffee table.

“John, John, you need to wake up.”

“Mmmfffkkfff”

“I’ve made you tea and toast, Lestrade wants us down at the yard, and we need to leave soon.”

“Must be dreaming. Thought I heard you say you made me tea and toast?” John mumbled as he rubbed his eyes and sat up, adorably sleep mussed. John did so love his sleep, and long habit meant he didn’t take kindly to Sherlock waking him.  _ One day I must tell him how cute he is when he is all grumpy and half awake.  _

“Not dreaming,  _ mon petit chou.” _

Blinking, John stared at his breakfast, “Bloody hell, are you sure?”

“Are you complaining I made you breakfast?” 

“What? Christ no, just… still waking up.”

“Well, you have 15 minutes to eat, shower and dress before we need to be out the door. I take it you solved the case? Lestrade is calling an All Hands.”

Shoving toast in his mouth while gulping at his tea, John muttered something inaudible on his way to the bathroom. Sherlock smiled as he prepared his own toast and honey and a coffee to start his day.

Seventeen minutes later John walked into the kitchen, looking a bit self-conscious in his sad excuse for a good suit (in Sherlock’s opinion), straightening his tie.

“Why did you lay out my suit?” He queried, running a nervous hand through his hair before looking at the time. “Shit, I need my laptop and my notes.”

Nodding to the sofa, Sherlock grabbed his keys and wallet, “Where you left them. Shall we?”

Of course a taxi miraculously appeared on cue, and Sherlock let them both sit in silence until John’s evident nervousness became palpable.

“Clothing is a form of amour and camouflage. People are conditioned to react in certain ways to how we dress. A suit commands attention, defines someone as important, especially if it is obviously expensive. Wearing one, when few others are, places you in a dominant position in the room. It lends authority to your presence.”

John mulled over that for a long moment, “But everyone at the Yard knows who I am?”

Leaning back into his seat, Sherlock slid his hand onto John’s thigh with a light squeeze, “Yes, but this time, they get to appreciate you as the expert Doctor that you are. Trust me.”

_ Sherlock was pleased to note that the suit had its intended impact. John was received with respectful nods by those who knew him, and quiet ‘Dr. Watson’s by those he was introduced to. Lestrade even gave him a once-over in surprise, then an approving welcome handshake. _

*   
  
As the suit worked its magic, John felt his confidence rise, and was feeling a lot calmer once he was ushered into the conference room. Setting down his laptop and notes, he waited while everyone filed into the room, Sherlock and Greg following the stragglers in and closing the door.

Curious glances were cast at the Consulting Detective who was normally the one up front, and a few murmurs of ‘whats going on’ and ‘dunno’ could be heard, until Greg pointedly cleared his throat saying, “Whenever you are ready, Dr. Watson.”

John knew most of the people in the room, having worked with them before, and the other faces were familiar, so he decided to ease them all into it.

“Right, well, this is the point where Sherlock would usually drop a few cryptic clues, call you all idiots for not understanding, and storm out dramatically.” He waited out the sniggers and ignored the amused smirk that briefly graced Sherlock’s lips.

“Instead, I’m going to break it all down for you as simply as I can. What happened, How it happened, a guess at Why, and hopefully that will be enough for you lot to figure out Who. If I lose anyone with the medical terminology, just ask, but it shouldn’t be too complicated. Please save any big questions ‘til I get to the end. Alright?”

A chorus of nods and agreement filled the room.

“First of all, yes, the three patients you have identified were murdered. Yes, there are probably more as well, and if you don’t catch them, I’m pretty sure there will be even more. However, this isn't a serial killer like you would normally expect. If I am correct, it's someone with a specific purpose.”

_ Ahh, that got their attention, good. _

“Right, what happened? Three patients with completely survivable injuries or illnesses died in mysterious enough circumstances. It was noticed because how they died was not related in any way to how they were sick. So, what links these three patients?”

_ This is the process they are familiar with, keep it simple, John. _

“One, they all died in the same hospital. Two, they all had fixable mechanical issues, something surgery would solve – they were otherwise healthy individuals with positive outcomes expected. Three, they were all B blood group. Four, their genetic heritage was mixed, each with one half coming from the African continent.

That got him a lot of puzzled faces, so he smiled and continued, “Don’t worry, it will all make sense once I take you through it. The second problem was how they died. Tox screens were clear, no unexpected drugs. No post-surgical complications, and no obvious signs of interference. However, all three died within 24 hours of surgery, and they all still had either an IV catheter or a central line installed. It’s incredibly risky as a murder weapon as it’s particularly unreliable, but as far as I can tell, they died due to air-embolism-induced stroke or heart attack. In layman's terms, someone injected a lot of air into their veins and got very lucky, because it is almost untraceable. 

John swept his gaze across his audience. Anderson looked confused, several looked surprised, and most appeared to be waiting for him to continue. Sherlock looked… profoundly satisfied, and gave him a tiny nod of approval. Taking a deep breath, because he genuinely felt like he was swimming in deep waters here, John carried on. 

“Alright, what does all this mean? Conceivably a lucky guess with no hard evidence to hold it together, until I found one key piece of the puzzle. One patient had a request for an HLA test on their records. That's a test done to establish donor compatibility for kidney donations.”

_ Blank looks from most of the room. Righto. _

“I noted before that all the victims shared the B blood group, and mixed heritage, where one of their parents was from the African continent. B positive is fairly rare and B negative is extremely rare in anyone with that genetic heritage. Also, kidney transplant rejection is substantially higher in patients with the same genetic heritage. There was absolutely no reason for any of these patients to be tested for HLA. It is a serious operation, and all three had just undergone a major surgery. So there was no way any of them would have been considered as a live donor.”

The air of anticipation, as he broke it down for them step by step, was heady. _Time for the final puzzle piece._

“One more key thing to note – none of these patients would have been accepted as donors because none of them had been resident in the UK for the minimum 12 months required.”

Sherlock made a quiet but pleased “Oh,” and Donovan frowned at him, saying in her usual angry tone,

“Well, go on then, do the big reveal.” 

Instead Sherlock stared very intently at her for a long moment, until she began to shift uncomfortably in her seat. With a tight vicious smile aimed at her, he then looked at John, saying quietly, “This is Dr. Watson’s case, not mine.”

Taking the hint, John raised his voice a little, “The Why and the Who are what this all hinges on. Someone who works at the hospital has a loved one who matches the profile of these victims and likely needs another kidney transplant. The problem is, there are never enough available organs, and the chances of rejection increase the more transplants you have. So if you are waiting for your second or third, you are often way down the list. Add in the complications of the blood type and tissue matching, and someone is likely running out of time.

“Who has access to any part of a hospital with no questions asked? Cleaning staff, nurses, doctors, administration or technical people. You can cross any medical staff off the list, because they would have known about the exclusion issue. Whoever is doing this has some basic knowledge and access to the internet, for the rest.”

Rueful laughter fills the room. Dealing with internet idiots was all too frequent in their jobs, making it both harder and easier at times. John grinned in commiseration. 

“They also have the ability to alter the patient records data, so I would say it's either someone in IT or a service technician. Questions?”

Greg said hesitantly, “So they are identifying patients that match the profile needed for organ donation, and killing them? In the hope that whoever they are doing this for might get one?”

John nodded, “Yes, horrifying, and if they had been a little bit smarter, they might have got away with it.”

Unexpectedly, there was a round of applause and a buzz of voices as they began discussing how best to attack the problem. Greg stepped forward, “Yeah alright, you lot, back to your desks, work to do. John, thank you for an excellent, clear, concise and  _ informative  _ summary.” 

He pointedly looked at Sherlock for a moment before continuing, “If you can email me your full report, I will share it with the team. Will you be available for followup questions?”

Nodding, John opened up his laptop, “Of course. Sherlock, be a dear and pop out for some decent coffee, will you?”

Absolutely  _ nobody _ looked at Sherlock, who slowly stood, crinkled his eyes at John in appreciation of his move, and asked politely, “Danish or muffin?”

John raised his head from his laptop screen, tilted his head with one of his inscrutable ‘I am such a bastard but I’m cute so I get away with it’ grins.

“Oh,  _ mon petit bonbon _ , you choose.”

NSY was treated to the unexpectedly delightful spectacle of Sherlock blushing a fetching shade of pink as his long strides took him out of the office.

Greg raised his eyebrows at John, who muttered, “He called me his little cabbage this morning. In French.”

Unable to suppress a snigger, Greg let it become a full on laugh. “Oh, come on, it's adorable. But probably best to save the pet names for home?”

John winked, “Oh, I think he got the point. But fair call.”

“Hey,” Greg put his hand on John’s shoulder in a brief companionable grip, “You did a great job, not just solving it, but your presentation? Should get you doing all of Sherlock’s. Told us everything we need to know.”

“Cheers, though I’m sorry it took so long.”

“None of that. Given you emailed me after 6 this morning, we won’t keep you all day.”

*   
  
As expected, there were many followup questions. Eventually, Greg let them go for a late lunch, taking Sherlock aside while John was finishing up.

“Nice touch with the suit. Backing him up the way you did, that was well handled. He needed your support and you were there for him. I’m really proud of you Sherlock.”

Eyes on John, who was laughing at something Dimmock said, Sherlock leaned against the door frame, “It hasn’t been easy, for either of us, but it's worth it.”

Greg nudged his shoulder against Sherlock’s, “Yeah mate, I know.”

*

Sherlock took him to the place Greg liked, and when John saw the Red Velvet Cake in the cabinet, he smiled.

Over sausage egg and chips, they talked about the case, quietly, so as not to disturb the other patrons.

“I couldn’t have solved this one,” Sherlock said as he mopped up egg yolk with a chip. 

John's eyebrows said ‘really?’ while he was chewing, and Sherlock nodded.

“I wouldn’t have known which data was relevant and important, and I certainly didn’t know how to link the clues together. I might have figured out how they died, but why? That was a deductive leap I couldn’t have made.”

“Uh, thank you?”

“Of course, you wouldn’t have solved it without my teaching you how to observe, but you need to have more faith in your abilities, John. I couldn’t do the Work without you and, as you demonstrated today, I can learn from you as well.”

Watching as John unwound his way through that, he waited until John narrowed his eyes at him.

“I think you just insulted me, but I’m going to let it go. For now.” He sat back with a happy well-fed sigh, “It's a hell of a responsibility. Made me see why you get so wound up in it. Don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook, though. Eating and sleeping do actually help.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a dramatic huff, “In that case, yes, I will definitely have some cake to go. After all, someone ate the rest of the Tiramisu for breakfast.”

John raised his hand to attract one of the wait staff, and smirked at him, “You managed to eat most of the bowl I took to bed last night. It was my only chance.”

“I was comfort-eating!” Sherlock said grandly.

“Idiot.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS NOTE:
> 
> If you want to leave comments about issues with my representation top/bottom or dom/sub roles, sizes of cocks, complain that your particular kink is not being addressed, or request a particular kink to be included - PLEASE DON'T.
> 
> I write my story, compliments of the voices in my head. If you like it, I would love to hear about it. If you don't, then move on to the next story.


	13. Blowjob Bribery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally gets his way and takes John shopping for a new wardrobe, and John begins to understand the impact well made clothing can have.
> 
> BONUS PORN!!!
> 
> [Feel free to yell at me on Tumblr](https://br-nz.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***************************************************************
> 
> Most delicious of readers - yes there is another VERY LONG chapter, because once I got onto the whole clothes porn thing these two idiots wouldn't shut up. 
> 
> When I started this, it turned into something completely different to what I originally imagined. Its become my own personal fix-it fic, not just fixing the story lines, but fixing the boys as well. They are still telling me more of those stories so there will be more. 
> 
> Its not a plotted out story, more a meandering journey to see what happens along the way, and there will be more.
> 
> As always, MUCH LOVE for @Hatknitter - this story would not be what it is without her sterling beta work
> 
> *****************************************************************************************

_ Pleasure…. Like liquid syrup… replacing all the blood in his veins… _

_ Nerves sparking with exquisite pain… oh god… his cock enveloped in hot wet friction… fuck, it feels amazing… _

_ Oh yes, don’t stop…  _

Drawn out of his intensely erotic dream with a shuddering moan, John realised it  _ wasn’t  _ a dream at all. Sherlock growled deep in his throat, and the vibration around John’s cock had him arching helplessly, hands flailing for purchase on the rumpled sheets.

“Oh god, please, don’t stop… give me your fingers…”

Sherlock was clearly in a playful mood this morning, taking his time to tease, which John had absolutely no issue with at all, beyond the fact he was  _ taking so long about it! _

Reduced to a panting, incoherent mess as Sherlock held him just far enough away from his orgasm that it almost hurt, John reached down to roughly stroke his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“Ahh… please, god have mercy… ahh”

Taking the hint, Sherlock picked up the pace, applying even more suction, one finger crooked just so, humming in approval as John begged him for  _ le petit mort. _

Lost in sensation, John hovered on the crest, when one final twist of a nipple tipped him over the edge and he came, crying out loudly, with heaving jerks. Trembling, he lay as Sherlock gently worked every ounce of bliss out of him.

Chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, sweaty and uncertain whether he was going to have the use of his legs any time soon, John reached gratefully for the glass of water Sherlock handed him before collapsing back onto the damp sheets.

“Fuck!” he managed, reaching out a hand to make some physical contact between them, and Sherlock twined their fingers together with a low laugh.

“Morning, John. Don’t try to speak, I think you need to wait a moment for your higher brain functions to come back online.” Smugness fairly radiated off Sherlock as he rolled over, propped himself up on one arm, and traced fingertips lightly over John’s sweat-damp chest.

Eyes closed, John nodded and giggled, high on endorphins and afterglow, “I’ve died and gone to heaven. Fuck, that was AMAZING!”

“Mmmm,” rumbled Sherlock in agreement, as John.exe finished its reset and he reached for his lover.

“Give me a minute, then it's your turn, yeah?”

Rolling in to snuggle into John’s shoulder, Sherlock said, “No need. Watching you come apart so completely was  _ unexpectedly  _ satisfying.”

Wrapping his arm around Sherlock, John nestled him closer, “You came from getting me off? That’s…”

“Surprising?” 

John laughed, “Hot as fuck, is what I was going to say. And a rather belated good morning to you, by the way.”

“Don’t expect this every morning.”

“Christ no, be the bloody death of me. But, fuck me sideways,  _ what  _ a way to go.”

“Well, statistically…”

“Oh, I do not need to know how often people die having sex. Let’s not spoil a fantastic morning afterglow. Although I do have one question?”

“Mmm?”

“How the hell did you get my pants off?”

Sherlock made a scissor-snipping motion with one hand, “It was a merciful death, I promise.”

“You  _ cut _ my underwear off?”

Sherlock nosed in under his jaw with soft kisses before saying, “I think the sacrifice was worth it?”

John groaned in surrender, “Alright, before you mysteriously end up spilling acid on my entire wardrobe, take me shopping, then.”

Sherlock stopped to look at him with his best ‘I’m innocent, Your Honour’ expression until John poked him in the ribs, “I have one condition, though.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“For every fancy suit you make me buy, you are getting a pair of jeans. And you  _ will  _ wear them.” 

The eyebrow stayed raised, making John laugh. “Your arse is a work of art in jeans. I’d like to appreciate it more.”

“I accept your terms.” Sherlock moved in for a kiss, but John turned his face away.

“Jesus, I’ve got awful morning breath and you’ve got cock breath. Let's shower first? 

“Cock breath?” Sherlock looked mildly horrified, which set John off giggling.

“It's a joke, you posh git. Get off me so I can get up.”

Sherlock released John into the wilds of the bathroom, letting out a victorious fist pump. He’d been not-so-subtly easing John toward a wardrobe overhaul since their talk several weeks ago. Finally it had paid off! But now he had phone calls to make, to organise their day.

* 

John bounced his leg nervously in the taxi, “So, what should I expect? I’d rather not walk in blind here.”

Sherlock eased a hand along his thigh, “Relax, mostly you just stand there while they measure you. Then there’s the fun bit, where you choose the fabrics and colours, style and cut. It takes a while to do properly, but it's not complicated.”

Chewing his lip with worry, John glanced at Sherlock’s profile, which won him a twitch of a smile.

“We aren’t going to Savile Row. My personal tailor isn't far from there, and he has a very select clientele. Exquisite attention to detail, and they offer full wardrobe advice as well. You’ll like them.”

“Is Mycroft a customer?”

“Wouldn’t be seen dead there. He much prefers the stuffy traditional style, very much the Savile Row man. Boring and  _ extremely  _ dull.”

Sighing with relief, John sat back and watched the city go by, noting the change in buildings as they meandered down through Soho and into Mayfair. Old and quaint changed to old, elegant, and expensive, and the shops sported familiar brands like Louis Vuitton, Burberry, and Cartier.

_ I don’t belong here, not like Sherlock does… _

He realised he was bouncing his knee again as Sherlock gave his thigh a gentle squeeze. Then all too soon they were out of the cab, pressing a button for entrance, and climbing an old wooden staircase.

Halfway up, Sherlock stopped, pulled John to a halt and then around to face him. Cradling John’s jaw with one hand he stared intently for a moment before leaning in to offer up a sweet slow kiss. “Relax. You deserve this, John. And if it helps, think about my arse in the tightest jeans we can find.”

John blinked at him and then closed his eyes with a pained groan, “You realise that's not actually helping me right now.” He got a wink and a pat on the bum to send him on his way up the stairs, but he was smiling when he reached the top of them.

“Oh Sherlock, dahhhhhhling, where  _ have  _ you been hiding yourself? And what the hell are you wearing? O.M.G! My eyes!”

The voice belonged to a slender, dapperly dressed man in suit trousers, a crisp white shirt, and the most obnoxious tartan waistcoat John had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. Wavy dark-blond hair, kissed with grey at the temples, bounced with his energetic strides as he welcomed Sherlock with effervescent kisses on both cheeks. “It's been  _ too  _ long, my gorgeous boy.”

Smiling with real warmth, Sherlock returned the embrace, “Marcus, please accept my profound apologies. My brother had a tight grip on the purse strings.”

Marcus gave him a frowning once-over, walking around Sherlock, tutting with disapproval, “Well, it could be worse, but we can remedy that!” Marcus clapped his hands with delight, while John watched with amusement.

“Marcus, sorry to disappoint you, but we are here for John today.”

Bright hazel eyes framed in fine smile-lines met John’s, and Marcus swept forward to shake his hand with a remarkably firm grip, giving him a quick visual once-over. “Marcus Delaney. Enchanted to meet you. And you are?”

Squaring his shoulders, John replied, “Dr. John Watson, and I’m Sherlocks better half.”

“Oh, are you now? How delightful!” Gentle fingers plucked at his clothes as Marcus circled him again, “Yes, well, I can see why you brought him to us, darling boy. Come come!”

Marcus ushered them through to the fitting room, and John caught his breath. The room was amazing. Polished wooden floor covered in an expensive-looking rug, large windows offering a view of the city, and skylights flooding the space with natural light.

Spacious changing rooms were visible off to one side, along with a huge full-length mirror, and a variety of shirts, pants, and jackets were hung up nearby. An old well-used wooden table was draped with fabric swatches, tape measures, scissors, and other tools. Off to one side was a tailor’s dummy, a small step-stool beside it.

Marcus led them to an expensive but comfortable-looking Chesterfield sofa, ringing a bell, which summoned what John assumed was an apprentice. Tea and cakes were ordered. Sherlock and Marcus chatted, catching up on what appeared to be an old friendship. John flicked through a catalog placed on the coffee table, looking at a variety of handsome men modelling suits, with slick professionally-taken images.

Once tea and some delicious petit fours had been consumed, Marcus sat back with a sigh, leaning into the comfort of the Chesterfield wingback chair (which John coveted immediately upon sitting on the matching sofa).

“Now, my precious pumpkin, tell me more about what brings you to our studio?”

John and Sherlock exchanged a complicated series of eyebrow wiggles and Sherlock replied, “John has never had the joy of a properly-fitted bespoke suit. His previous budget allowed him to dress with more functionality than style in mind. I’d like him to broaden his sartorial experience and, of course, I would  _ never  _ go anywhere else.”

“ _Ma_ _cheri_ , I am delighted to hear it.” To John he said, “Don’t worry, sugar plum, we will take the best care of you. Please stand up, this way.”

Hesitantly, John did as he was bid, standing, moving as requested by Marcus, answering a series of questions about his previous wardrobe choices. He kept throwing questioning glances at Sherlock, who smiled and nodded.

While this was happening, a swarthy, dark-haired man, a generous sprinkling of silver hairs highlighting his soft curls, quietly entered the room. He saw Sherlock, nodded and smiled, silently mouthing ‘later’, while watching Marcus take John through the initial discussion.

*   
John began to relax as Marcus patiently explained the process to him, having him stand, squat, walk away and back again several times, so that the way he moved and held himself could be interpreted.   
  
Marcus smoothed his hands over John’s shoulders. “A military man, if I am not mistaken? You hold yourself well. Excellent posture.”

Hiding a grin by turning away from Sherlock, he murmured, “Well, when you are walking next to that lanky git, every centimeter counts.”

Marcus clapped his hands with delight, “Oh you are a sassy one, aren’t you!”

He called to Sherlock, “Don’t let this one go, Sherlock, he is a treasure.”

Sherlock rumbled back with amusement, “Oh, I’m keeping him for as long as he will have me.”

Marcus stage-whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Well I hope you  _ have  _ him as often as possible!” and John felt himself blushing.

“Roman, my darling, please meet Dr. John Watson, here for his very first bespoke fitting. Be gentle with him.” Marcus turned to John. “Roman is our cutter. He will take all your measurements and cut the fabric for your suit, then I will ensure it fits perfectly.”

Roman smiled with easy familiarity, kissed Marcus’s cheek, and put his hand out saying, in a soft Italian accent, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

“Oh, just John, please. Ummm, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do?”

“If you could slip off your jacket? Yes, thank you for wearing a proper shirt, especially in this heat.”

“Sherlock did explain some of the process.”

“Good, now where is my delinquent apprentice? Jay?” 

A slender, androgynous figure wearing jeans, a poet’s shirt, glasses, and a mop of wild brunette curls appeared with an iPad in hand. “Sorry, let me just grab the stool.”

“Hmmph, right, just-John, lift your arms. Excellent.”

John was thoroughly measured from head to toe, literally, Roman calling out measurements and incomprehensible terminology that Jay entered into the iPad. Once the measurements were done, Roman started asking questions about the style and design of the suit. Some of them John understood, but he didn’t necessarily know the answers, and rolled his eyes at Sherlock in a silent request for help.

Sherlock ambled over, taking the time to receive a hug from Roman and a soft exchange in Italian, before heading to the table and pulling out the fabric samples.

“Let's start with the colour and the fabric, then work from there?” He fanned out various shades of blue and grey in front of John. “I recommend the Super 120s wool, although this silver-blue mohair is gorgeous.”

*

Marcus and John fussed over colour choices, and Roman led Sherlock away from the discussion, saying quietly, “Come with me.”

They popped into the workroom, and Roman rummaged in the impressive stack of rolled fabrics, pulling out a darker version of the mohair. Sherlock smiled in appreciation, smoothing the fabric through his fingers. 

“There isn’t much left on the roll. Is it enough for a suit?”

Roman nodded with a smile, “If I cut carefully, enough for a two-piece. The silver is beautiful, but too light for your man. This will bring out the colour in his eyes.”

Grinning conspiratorially at Roman, Sherlock said, “I agree. Whatever he decides on, do a suit in this as well, add it to the bill, but don’t tell him. Have you got anything in a similar blue, for me? That would complement this?”

Putting the fabric aside, Roman looked thoughtfully at Sherlock, “For a  _ special  _ occasion, I assume? I don’t think I have anything here, but I remember seeing something that might suit. Might take a few days to track down?”

Waving his hand in casual agreement, Sherlock said only, “I will leave my new contact details with Marcus. We’d better head back.”

When they returned, John looked a query at Sherlock, who replied casually, “Looking at some fabric for myself. Let me see what you decided on.”

Quibbling over John’s choices, eventually they settled on a three-piece in a rich cobalt blue, and a more casual two-piece in a pewter grey. Notched lapel, no-cuff pants with a half break, single-vented jacket with flap pockets, real buttons, single-breasted tapered fit, and some inner pockets.

As they fussed over the options, Roman pulled John aside, saying quietly, “I notice your left shoulder seems a little stiff. Is there anything I should know around mobility?”

With a sigh, John nodded, “I was shot and invalided out. It's occasionally a bit stiff, but generally fine most of the time.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Roman, “May I?” John nodded and allowed Roman to carefully manipulate the joint. He called Jay over and dictated some notes in tailor shorthand, before saying, “I recommend you get some blazers for more casual wear. Bring them here and I will alter for you.”   
  
He cast a glance at Marcus and Sherlock, who were noisily debating some obscure point, and followed up, “Go to Harrods and let Sherlock advise you, he has excellent taste. Ask for Andre, give him this.” Tucking a business card into John’s hand. It had ‘VIP Roman’ scrawled on the back.

Touched by his kindness, John smiled, and asked curiously, “Do you give everyone this level of service?”

Roman gave him a steady measuring look before replying, “Sherlock is an old friend. He helped us when we were starting out. Our accountant was cooking the books. It is good to see him happy, and with someone.”   
  
*

Marcus was watching their conversation out of the corner of his eye, and said to Sherlock in a low tone, “It’s been a few years, but you are different, with him.”

“How so?”

“Well you are a long way from the skinny twink who ended up kipping on my sofa for a couple of weeks when I first found you. You always had this nervous energy, like you couldn’t stay still or you might combust. I don’t see that in you now. You seem more settled, grounded. Is that from John?”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock nodded, “Mostly John, and a lot of therapy, and a few too many life-threatening situations.” He kept his tone light, but Marcus knew him well enough to hear what he wasn’t saying.

“Bring him ‘round for dinner one night. We have both missed you, darling boy.”

Sherlock grinned, “I cook now, I’ll have you know.”

Marcus’s eyes sparkled, “Well, I look forward to trying it one day.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock smirked, “John has plenty of photos on his phone. It's a little embarrassing.”

Clasping his hands with wide eyed delight, Marcus actually wriggled with anticipation, “Really? Oh I  _ must  _ see!”

The phone was duly produced by a puzzled John, but he enthusiastically shared his photos with a cooing Marcus, and dinner invitations were duly exchanged.

After many more kisses and hugs, they were finally released. John spied a cafe down the road and headed resolutely toward it with a, “God, I need a coffee.” 

Settled in, with some food ordered and a fairly good long black in front of each of them, Sherlock braced himself for the likely interrogation. John surprised him, saying only, “You were right, I did like them. Marcus is quite full-on, but he’s… kind.”

“He does camp it up a bit for customers. But yes, he helped me out when I got in a little over my head in the club scene.”

“They would have eaten you alive in Heaven, I bet.” Sherlock blinked, and John did his bastard smirk thing again, “Oooh, did I surprise you?”

Easing himself down into his chair, Sherlock gave John an assessing glance, “It’s still open, we could go clubbing. Might as well put the painted-on jeans to actual use…”

Mesmerised by the visuals, John pondered, “Tempting, but I’d have to fight off a constant stream of competition. Might spoil the mood.”

“And pass up the chance to be hot, sweaty, and grinding into my arse where everyone else can see you stake your claim?” Sherlock’s voice had dropped to his lowest register and John literally felt the words on his skin, and shivered.

Hoarsely he said, “Next stop, Harrods.”

***

Andre turned out to be a very fit thirty-something with a cultured Euro accent (Sherlock whispered ‘Austrian’ in John’s ear) who accepted Roman’s card, lit up with a delighted smile, and ushered them to a private changing room.

Sherlock and Andre cautiously fenced around each other until they found common ground, and then John did as he was bid, trying on an apparently endless series of clothes. Some of the price tags made him flinch, but Sherlock waved away his concerns.

Muttering something about capsule wardrobes and colour-matching, Andre whisked away all the discards, then handed a rather vulnerable-feeling John (standing there in just his underwear) an armful of clothing.

“This, I think, for your casual day wear.” He nodded, closed the door on the cubicle and left John to it. The door opened briefly, and a pair of comfortable-looking grey suede slip-ons and socks were deposited in the doorway.

Taking the hint, John chose from the pile and dressed. He did have to admit that the rich cotton fabric of the shirt was pleasant, the navy pants sat very nicely with a small turned-up cuff that he liked, and the smoke-grey blazer with a subtle herringbone pattern paired well with the shoes. He groaned at how blissfully comfortable they were on his feet. Opting for the thin black leather belt, he braced himself for the walk out, hoping he looked as good as he felt. There were no mirrors in the cubicle.

Nervously, he opened the door and stepped out, looking immediately for Sherlock, who would give him an honest opinion (whether he wanted it or not). Except he couldn’t quite figure out the complex mix of expressions that crossed that clever face, but the general feeling was approval.

*   
  
_ Oh, John, seeking me out for approval before you even see yourself…  _

_ Justine was right, self-worth is a complicated concept. How sad it is that John cannot seem to see that his value lies far beyond the exterior trappings. His heart, courage, patience and humanity are a gift beyond price. _

_ I must tell him this more often. How lucky I am that he chose me. _

_ * _

Andre appeared out of nowhere, tucking and tweaking, humming until he was satisfied, and then he took John by the shoulders and turned him to the mirror, “Look at yourself.”

_ It was his own face, but the clothes made such a difference! Properly fitted, quality fabrics, styled to make an impression. He looked good. Better than good. He looked… expensive, put together, and somehow taller? _

Sherlock ghosted up behind him, looking over his shoulder, making minute adjustments to the hang of his lapel. He pulled out a spectacle case, opened it and passed the pair of glasses inside to John. “The finishing touch. You left them on the desk this morning.”

John slid the glasses on and, oddly, the man in the mirror appeared more resolute, someone to be respected.

Sherlock’s silky baritone sounded softly behind him, “Clothing is both armour and a weapon, do you  _ see  _ now?”

_ I do… It’s amazing, how different I look. Standing next to Sherlock, we complement each other, I look like I belong beside him. Like I have the right to be there. _

_ I think… I’m going to enjoy this. _

Andre hovered into view, “May we exchange the blazer for this?” and as John allowed him to slip the coat off his shoulders, he slid into an almost weightlessly soft, but still warm, merino silk jersey in a pale blue.

“I look like a University Professor.” He turned to look at Sherlock, “You hate me in jumpers.”

Sherlocks lips twitched as he tried to hold back a smirk, “This is  _ not  _ a jumper. This is two of the world’s softest natural fibres crafted into a luxury clothing item.”

Turning back to the mirror, he flexed his toes in the sinfully comfortable shoes, and sighed in unwilling surrender. “Alright, you win. Buy whatever you think I need. These shoes are fantastic. But some in leather as well? Suede is a pain to keep clean.”

Nodding in agreement, Andre said, “They are Louis Vuitton, and will be treated with a waterproof spray, which will help. I will bring some more options.”

John went to get changed, but Sherlock pulled him over to the couch, “Stay as you are, no need to put your old clothes back on.”

Subsiding with a sigh, John sat, and then frowned. “When do I get to see you in jeans?”

Swinging a Harrods bag in one hand Sherlock grinned, “Already done, but I wanted to wait until we were  _ home  _ for you to see me in them.”

_ Oh god… _

Avoiding looking at the price when it was finally all rung up, Sherlock giving directions for where it could all be delivered, John was seized with inspiration.

“We have one more stop to make, upstairs.”

Sherlock shrugged and followed John until they stood in the furniture section, looking at John with eyebrows raised.

“Find something long enough for you to nap on. Time to get rid of that leather monstrosity and get a sofa that's actually  _ comfortable _ . Please?”

Frowning, Sherlock looked around, and John sighed, “Yes, you can put it upstairs if you can’t bear to part with it. But for the love of god, it would be nice not to need a hot bath and a physio appointment after having a kip.” He paused a beat, “And to have something that we both fit on,  _ together _ .”

“Oh…”

John waggled his eyebrows and grinned, “Yes, ‘oh’ indeed. Come on, you will be the fussy one.”

Eventually they settled on a three-seater Italian-made sofa in a heavy-nub moss green fabric with brown leather trim, some additional oversize pillows, and a couple of soft plush throw rugs that John insisted on. A delivery date would be confirmed. 

He had his eye on a couple of chairs that would look nice and replace his rather battered and saggy chair, but he suspected that would be a harder battle. Still, he had Sherlock’s method of persuasion as inspiration. Who knew what he would agree to if sufficiently … motivated.

***   
  
Frowning at the piles of what he could only classify as crap, stuff that Sherlock had accumulated in the corners of the sitting room, John rolled his eyes.

“Time for a bloody good tidy-up. Might as well move it all upstairs,” he mumbled under his breath, knowing Sherlock would be less than pleased, and certainly unwilling to let it go.

The new sofa was a good foot longer than the old one, but it would fit, as long as the stacked assortment of boxes, books, random piles of paperwork, and what John suspected was some form of mummified animal were moved.

Shedding his fine mohair jersey, rolling up his sleeves, slipping off his shoes, John waded into the pile, curiosity getting the better of him.

“What the hell? Christ, I really don’t want to know, is that a dried animal penis? Oh My God, a box of teeth! HUMAN TEETH!? Sherlock!”

Turning to demand an explanation, John stopped at the sight that greeted him.

Leaning casually against the doorframe stood six feet of pure, unadulterated sin, topped with a ‘come fuck me’ smirk that hit John’s libido at about Mach 1. Sherlock stood dressed in black jeans so sleekly fitted that John doubted there could be any underwear involved, barefoot, hair mussed, and a tight black mesh top that clung to every curve and shimmered with iridescence. His eyes were dark, smokey, and knowing as he stretched a little, preening under John’s gaze.

_ See me, John… let me watch the desire bloom across your face, see how you undress me with your eyes... _

“Oh….” John breathed, as any capability for coherent thought migrated south so fast he was dizzy, “Fuck me.”

Sherlock put his hands on the top of the kitchen door frame and arched forward, posing as he said slowly, “I could, but I was rather hoping  _ you  _ would do the honours….”

_ Take me, claim me, make me yours, John…  _

“Turn around,” ordered John hoarsely. With a sensual sway of his hips, Sherlock did as requested, popping a hip to show how well the jeans hugged his superb arse.

“You are never  _ ever  _ going out in public wearing those,” John growled as he smoothed his hands over Sherlock’s denim-clad hips, down the front of those long thighs, back up to grasp at his glorious arse. Sherlock hummed a question at him, turning in place, using the leverage of his hands to press his hips forward into John’s body.

Eyes outlined in smudged eyeliner, Sherlock looked seductively dangerous, and his eyes glittered with wicked intent as he leaned in and breathed hotly into John’s ear, “How do you plan to stop me?” He delicately scraped his teeth over John’s earlobe, before continuing “... Captain?”

_ Mmmmm, I love that look on your face, all alpha male, yet underneath all that hunger you still yearn for that deeper connection. I know you will always take care of me…. _

_ I love how I can affect you like this....God, how I want you, John…  _

Giving into his possessive nature, John took the mouth that was offered him, and they devoured each other with greedy wet kisses, panting and grinding against each other, hands grasping and stroking with urgent demand.

Tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling back with a gentle tug to reveal the sculpted masculine planes of his neck, John held him in place while he worshipped with his mouth. 

“You gorgeous fucking tease,” trailing his fingers over the hard length of Sherlock’s cock, no doubt uncomfortably enclosed in the indecently tight denim, John eased open the top button, dipping his fingers in far enough to establish that there was indeed no underwear present.

“Oh John, I absolutely intend to deliver,” Sherlock murmured as he swayed into John’s touch and John giggled with breathless delight.

“I might have to cut these off you. My god, they could be painted on. Come here.” Wrapping his hand around one supple wrist, he tugged Sherlock over to John’s armchair, pushing him back to sit. He stood between Sherlock’s splayed legs, eyes hooded, as Sherlock slowly stretched, showing off his impressive abs. Tilting his head to gaze coyly up through lowered lashes, lips pursed in a sexy pout, Sherlock reached out to trail a hand over John’s aching cock.

_ Such gentle authority. No matter how I tease, we both know who is in control here… I need it and he wants it…  _

_ I look forward to the day he asks me to kneel for him, that quiet, firm instruction, the warmth in his voice as he pets me, tells me how good I am being for him…  _

_ I can be good and, for John, I want to be…. so very *very* good… _

_ But for now… it pleases me to misbehave… just enough... _

“Who’s the tease now?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow in blatant challenge, and John found himself growling low and hungry in response.

“Get your cock out, there’s a good boy,” John crooned, “nice and slow, show me just how  _ good  _ you can be…”

Eyes dark, Sherlock licked his lips, doing something serpentine with his back that was  _ extremely  _ distracting, and John groaned involuntarily. Sherlock smirked and rolled his hips again, asking in a voice heavy with desire, “What do I get, for being a good boy?”

_ Will you make me beg, take me to the edge and hold me there? _

_ Love me with that slow burning intensity that shatters me apart every time? _

_ God… your eyes on me… dark with longing… I can see how much you want me, John…. You know how well I can read you, and you hold nothing back…  _

_ You want me to know… to see the desire that fills you at the sight of me… even as you rein it back, letting me feel the heat of your fire, stoking the flames between us…. _

_ It’s a slow, exquisite descent into total combustion…. Take me down with you, oh god, please John... _

John leaned in, braced one arm on the back of the chair and hovered, barely touching the lips that were turned up to his in anticipation of a kiss, keeping just far enough out of reach, that Sherlock whined in frustration.

“Do what I asked, and find out.” Before Sherlock had a chance for a smart comeback, John closed the distance between them, bringing his other hand up to hold Sherlock’s chin in place. Moaning softly, Sherlock submitted to the grip, opening to the touch of John’s tongue as he expertly plundered that enticing mouth. Soft, lingering kisses promising much much more, John took Sherlock apart with just his lips and tongue, fingertips lightly tweaking nipples through the slippery fabric until Sherlock was begging for more. On one last bruising kiss, John stepped back saying, “You know what you need to do…”

Looking utterly debauched, painted with a delicate pink sex blush, Sherlock whined and pouted, until John stepped back, closed his eyes, cupped his own rock-hard cock, humming low and deep as he slowly stroked himself, smiling as he heard a whispered “Mmmm, Johhhhhnnn.”

Reluctantly easing his hand away, John crossed his arms, set his jaw and gazed down at his lover, now nearly oozing out of the chair so languidly was he draped over it. With a trademark dramatic sigh, Sherlock magically reassembled his limbs into a standing position between John and the chair. Sherlock shoved his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, flicking open the other buttons of his fly with practised ease, slowly, licking his lips artfully.

“Wait…,” muttered John roughly, and Sherlock sighed with relief as the fabric prison around his cock eased off. John sank backwards into Sherlock’s chair, reached for the nearest phone, opened a music app, and selected a playlist that started a song with a seductive thumping bass beat. Taking the hint, Sherlock closed his eyes, tipped his head back and lost himself in the music.

Watching the sinuous curve and sway of his lover dancing in front of him, John let himself drift a little in fantasy… speaking out loud for Sherlock’s benefit, so he could share in the scene. 

“In the crowded club, every head turns, watching you walk in. No one notices me at all, and when you hit the dance floor, every eye is on you. I watch the crowd, taking in the awed silence until, eventually, someone is brave enough to walk out, invite themself to join you there.”

The music changed to something slower, deeper, and Sherlock let his hands roam over his body, hips grinding as he swayed to the beat. There was a knowing smirk on his face and his voice broke into John’s fantasy… “Do I dance with them? Will you allow it? Another man’s hands on my body, his breath on my skin…?”

Their gaze locked, John asked hoarsely, “Do you want it? To be touched by someone else? While I watch?” John trailed his eyes down Sherlock’s body, the shiny mesh top clinging like a second skin, the pale white skin of his hips and groin marked only by the trail of dark hair leading down into the gaping V of his unbuttoned jeans, the prominent outline of his cock looking a bit cramped in the bunched denim.

Caught up in the fantasy they were weaving between them, John surged out of the chair, pushing into Sherlock’s personal space, not quite close enough to touch. They stared at each other and began to move together in time to the music.

The heavy rhythmic bass line was hypnotic, John watching as Sherlock relaxed into the beat, swaying with graceful sensual abandon. Raising his arms, turning and arching his back into slow, deep grinds of his arse, those long fingers splayed over his chest, pushing down the length of his thighs.

_ These could be your hands touching me, teasing me…. I want you to mark me, brand my skin with your mouth, remind me that I only belong to you… _

_ I’m yours, John… in every possible way…. even I cannot quantify exactly how I love you… I only know that I do… helplessly….  _

_ I want to drown myself in the deepest blue of your eyes… warm myself in the light of your smile…. It scares me… that I can love you this much... _

“God, you’re beautiful,” John rasped, reaching out to clasp Sherlock’s hips, pulling him flush with his own body, and Sherlock groaned.

“Finally…. Show me, John, show me how you want me…” He leaned back against John in submission, pulled John’s hands more firmly onto the bare skin of his hips and they both moaned at the contact.

Following the beat of the music, John switched his brain to automatic, body moving in instinctive time, but all his concentration was given to the man in front of him. He let his hands roam, gliding over the clinging black mesh, allowing him to rake his nails over the hard peaked nipples.

“Fuck, you smell amazing,” he muttered, nosing up under Sherlocks curls to reach the sensitive skin on the back of his neck, smiling at the low groan and tremble he could feel in response. “So sensitive, so beautifully responsive, god, look at you.” John let his hands trail down to frame Sherlock’s hips, tracing over the pale skin with the lightest brush of his fingertips.

Sherlock’s whole body quivered and he swayed, letting John take his weight for a moment, panting as he ground out in gravelly tones, “John, don’t make me wait, please…” As John let his fingers dip lower to stroke the long, hard line of his cock, Sherlock’s knees gave way and he stumbled forward against the chair. Grasping the back with one hand, he hung his head and shuddered, “God, I need to feel you inside me, now!” 

Laughing at the desperately imperious demand, as Sherlock struggled with trying to strip himself of his now annoyingly tight jeans, John stepped forward, smoothing a hand over the long line of his back. “Shhh, shhh, darling boy, I’ve got you, yeah?” 

His familiar, soothing tones settled Sherlock, who sighed and leaned into his touch with a whispered, needy, “John… please…”   
  
“Stand up, love, grab that lovely cock of yours and keep it out of the way. Right, I’m just going to pull these up….” Putting actions to words, he pulled the jeans up, folded the top over all the way ‘round, and then slowly but smoothly peeled them down in one easy motion.

Bared from hips to mid-thigh, Sherlock arched an eyebrow over his shoulder in query and John grinned, smoothing his hands over those lean muscular legs. “Kneel for me, Sherlock,” he said with quiet authority, clearly a command, not a request.

Wide-eyed, flushing an even deeper red, Sherlock trembled at the snap of dominance in John’s voice, nodding with a quiet, “Yes, Captain,” and did as he was told. They had figured out that his kneeling on John’s chair levelled out the height difference between them nicely, and the back of it offered sufficient bracing and support. Sherlock’s chair suited … different … activities.

Cupping his palms over the curves of Sherlock’s arse, John hummed in longing, “Fuck, your arse is glorious, and it makes me want to do  _ filthy _ , beautiful things to you.”

_ Fuck… yes, oh god, I want you to…. Take me apart, John… ruin me… over and over again... _

Sherlock arched into his touch, pressing back in invitation, the heavy length of his cock swaying between his legs as John reached around to stroke it. The sound it drew from Sherlock’s chest was deep and needy, and it made John ache to hear more like it.

“Yes, love, let me hear you,” he murmured as he bent to kiss the fine knobs of vertebrae, one hand lightly stroking Sherlock’s glistening cock, the other lightly scraping his nails up the back of one thigh, producing a delicious, keening whine that should be impossible with a baritone as deep as Sherlock’s.

“Oh, there’s a good boy. Fuck, I could come from your voice alone, you beautiful thing.” Licking and biting down the back of one firmly muscled thigh, nosing over the weight of soft bollocks already drawn up, humming as he drew one then the other into his mouth while Sherlock moaned and rocked back into him.

_ Can’t you feel it, how much I need you… how quickly you reduce me to a begging shaking mess… Bleeding Christ! I fucking love it! _

“John, fuck, John…. God….please…” The telltale hitch in Sherlock’s voice gave away the truth of how much he needed John, his grip white-knuckled on the back of the chair, spine bowed under the strain of his desire.

“Mmmm…. Since you ask so nicely…” He reached for the lube they had repurposed one of Sherlocks expensive hand cream pump bottles for, leaving it disguised on the mantelpiece. 

(Except for the day Mrs. Hudson had helped herself, paused momentarily at the handful of clear gel, given the both of them a  _ look _ , reached for a tissue and quietly walked away. There had been no scones that day.)

Wrestling his trousers and pants down far enough to be out of the way, John closed his eyes in blissful relief as his cock eased free. Slicking both himself and Sherlock with lube, he carefully swiped clear gel between the flexing arse cheeks of his whimpering lover.

“Ready, love?” John leaned forward, letting his cock glide into the close embrace of Sherlock’s thighs. Knees still restrained by the jeans, it was a tighter fit than usual. He’d been generous with the lube as a result. “Oh fuck, you feel good.”

Huskily, Sherlock groaned and pressed back, “Please, John… oh god, yes, YES.”

“Mmm deep breath then… nice and slow… oh fuck, yes.” Easing himself into Sherlock’s body, muttering ‘gorgeous, perfect, fucking amazing, god so fucking tight”, waiting until Sherlock sighed underneath him with a breathless, “Fuck me, John.”

With sure, easy rolls of his hips, John did as requested, letting Sherlock settle into a comfortable position on the chair. With a grunt, he pushed back, demanding, “Harder!” and John smiled, drawing it out a little longer, “Bossy.”

Managing to sound snarky even as he begged John to fuck him, Sherlock threw back over one shoulder, “One of us needs to be.” 

_ It’s a risk, to challenge him… my unpredictable unknowable John… have I timed it right? Will he give us both what we really want? _

_ Will he take control… make me feel everything… until all I know is him and the pleasure he so…..ooooh…. eloquently commands... _

John stilled for a brief moment, and the air thickened as he growled, hands taking a bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips. As he hammered his hips home, they both grunted under the impact, panting and moaning as they drove each other harder, Sherlock gasping and pleading until John rasped, “Use your hand, fuck I’m  _ so  _ close.”

As Sherlock desperately stroked himself, one arm braced across the back of the chair, John reached around with one hand, rolling one taut nipple firmly between his fingers. With a broken shout, Sherlock shuddered underneath him as he came. As his body tightened around him, John followed suit, face pressed into Sherlock’s spine as he groaned out his pleasure.

For a moment, they slumped, bound together with assorted sticky body fluids, until Sherlock twitched and John gently withdrew. Sherlock collapsed forward onto the chair and John slumped slightly sideways, leaning on the arm of the chair.

Both sweaty and breathing hard, John gently stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Christ, that was… fuck, Sherlock, I’m never going to be able to see you in those jeans without thinking of this.”

A rumbling laugh as Sherlock twisted sideways to kiss him, “Yes…” he said smugly, “that was the point.” He wrinkled his nose, “Need a shower.” 

John sighed, “Yeah, we both do, but hang on a bit. Need a minute or three.”

“Mmmm,” hummed Sherlock, with smug satisfaction, leaning into John’s petting fingers.

“Brat,” said John with a smile, and Sherlock wriggled a little under him.

“Absolutely, and you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

John drew a breath to reply that there were  _ many  _ other ways he intended to have Sherlock, but with a loud cracking groan, the arm of the chair he was leaning on gave way. It was a slow, graceless sprawl that tipped them sideways with gentle thuds onto the floor, both helpless with clothing tangled around their knees.

After a moment's shock, they both started giggling hysterically, John breathlessly trying to shush Sherlock. “Quiet, you idiot, or Mrs. H will be up here wondering what the hell is going on.”

Looking at the pair of them, half naked, the wrecked chair canted towards the fireplace, Sherlock just lay there and howled with laughter. John wrestled his pants and trousers up, just in case, before giving in to his own hilarity. 

“We’d never see another scone ever again,” he managed to splutter out, and tears leaked out of Sherlock’s eyes as he shook even harder with giggles. With a sigh, John wrestled Sherlock out of his jeans, “Christ, you’ve got come all over the rug as well.”

As Sherlock clambered upright, he leaned in for a lingering kiss, “We’ll get new chairs and rugs. I look forward to explaining why, when people ask.”

Rolling his eyes as he shoved Sherlock towards the much-needed shower, he muttered quite loudly, “Ball gag, the full-face harness kind, and I look forward to explaining  _ that  _ when people ask.”

_ He noted the widening of Sherlock’s eyes, and the hitch of his breath, and tucked that thought away for later. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS NOTE:
> 
> If you want to leave comments about issues with my representation top/bottom or dom/sub roles, sizes of cocks, complain that your particular kink is not being addressed, or request a particular kink to be included - PLEASE DON'T.
> 
> I write my story, compliments of the voices in my head. If you like it, I would love to hear about it. If you don't, then move on to the next story.


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